


Sing for Absolution

by Crossroad



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Classic Cars, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Literary References & Allusions, Male Protagonist, Multi, Musical References, Probably Will Add Tags as Time Goes On, References to Depression, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, i'm not good with tags, rated mature for future chapters, some legalese
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossroad/pseuds/Crossroad
Summary: What happens when the man who had it all throws it all away?Henry Peters has never wanted for much. His job, comfortably high on the corporate ladder of one of the largest mega-conglomerates in the country, has given him material wealth and financial freedom, all he's ever wanted, until he is forced to come face-to-face with what his success is costing others. Now, he's packed up his entire life into the trunk of his Town Car and has set out for a little slice of paradise left to him by his Grandfather, leaving behind everything and especially everyone from his former life in the hopes of discovering some small measure of peace in the Valley.





	1. Prologue and Chapter 1 - Breaking Out

**Author's Note:**

> Henry's a little older and grumpier than your average SV protagonist, so you'll have to bear with him a bit. I just wondered how the Valley's story might play out if the Farmer came from a little higher up on the corporate ladder, though he's not an executive or anything. I'm not sure if I'll really have him develop a romance or with who. I imagine the work will start dealing with some serious topics in the future but these first few chapters will be pretty tame. This is my first time posting here (or anywhere for that matter) so I apologize for the amateur-ness of this work. Feedback (positive or negative) and suggestions are highly appreciated. I hope you enjoy!

**Prologue - Breaking Out**

 

I could see little but a rising column of dust in my rear-view mirror. Ahead of me, nothing for miles except open road. To my sides, the shrubbery and dunes of the desert stretching out to the horizon. Heatwaves danced over the blacktop. Miles and miles separated me from that cesspit of a city. Hours separated me from my destination: that little slice of paradise in the Valley. I let out a sigh, scratching the bridge of my nose, one hand on the wheel. The well-worn passenger seat lay vacant beside me. The music playing over the sound system fit the somber mood, weaving a tale of tempestuous goodbyes and uncertain futures. Wedged between the armrests lay Gramps’ letter.

My ol’ Gramps was a renaissance man if there ever was one. His farm and ranch had a little of everything, and the old man had a finger in almost every pie. He farmed all manner of fruits and vegetables, he had a shed or two that he made into small-scale breweries, a full orchard, a few cabins for farm-hands, a couple of barns for his animals, and great green pastures surrounding it all. For a time, he even dabbled in racehorse breeding, though he soon left the business after a rather short but glorious run of introducing frontrunner after frontrunner to the circuits. His business made him wealthy, but he never lost that grass-roots humility of his. You’d never know from speaking to him in the winter of his life that his farm had put Pelican Town on the map and kept it there. Tourists would come from a thousand or two miles away just to tour the grounds, take in the scenery, stroll through the orchards, the wheat fields.

As I stared through the windshield, my eyes glazed over. Fresh and raw memories gnawed at my mind, but I shoved them out. For better for worse, I was on my own now, no more Joja, no more Roslyn, just myself and the road and all the damned, blessed freedom that came with it. For better or for worse, I was finally, truly the master of my fate, truly the captain of my soul.

 

**Chapter 1 - Those Days Are Over, and My Heart is Waiting**

 

As the desert turned to prairie then again to the beginnings of the forest, I could see the mountains rising in the distance, last winter’s snow still stubbornly clinging to their peaks. The posted limit was only fifty-five, I knew the county and state didn’t have the funds nor the inclination to patrol this lonely stretch of highway. I kept the Town Car at a steady sixty-five, the hood ornament occasionally bobbing as we hit a rough spot, the sun glinting off it and catching me in the eye. The indistinct oak trunks blurred together, yet looked oddly familiar. Easing off the gas and coasting to down to forty-five, I saw what I had been seeking.

As I turned off the beaten two-lane highway and came up the gravel path to the rusted gate, the finality of my situation sank in. All I owned, all I had access to, all I could rely on, was in this vehicle. I wasn’t exactly broke—I had liquidated my employee account and put it into the now-sagging trunk of my Town Car—but this was it. No bailouts, no phoning in a favor from a ‘friend.’ And I wouldn’t write to my parents for help. I had made my bed, so to speak.

I put the Town Car into park and stepped out. I moved the old, fallen sign proclaiming in bold lettering, “INVICTUS FARM” and below it, in fanciful script, “HOME OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS STARFRUIT WINE AND ‘STEEL WINNER’” out of my car’s path. My sleek but impractical suede driving gloves protected my hands from the rust as I hefted it to the side, but I could tell I would have to invest in something far sturdier for the work to come. I saw, pinned to the fence, a much more recent “PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING” sign.  _ Great. Squatters? _

The gate itself was real, old-fashioned wrought iron, not the mild steel they market as ‘wrought’ these days, but had rusted through so thoroughly due to decades of disuse and neglect that the left section had fallen onto the dirt, twisting the fence and the right section. It would have to be completely replaced, in time. I sighed and removed my blazer, tossing it carelessly onto the dusty hood of the Town Car, and went to haul the fence out of the way. It took a minute or two on account of the fact that the lock was far too weathered to work, so I had to drag it and the weight of the other gate section across rusted hinges and into the overgrowth. With the spring sun bearing down on me, I was already sweating through my shirt with the effort.

Soon enough, however, I was back into my car and on my way down the path. I had to carefully maneuver the beast of a sedan through the maze of saplings that had encroached onto the road, mumbling under my breath as I did so. I remember how Gramps had kept it, with the help of his farmhands. Oak trees lined the winding path up to the farmhouses, with tappers hidden on the reverse side to collect the resin. Form  _ and _ function, that was his style. I remember tearing down the path on the back of his old Kawasaki, holding on to him utterly terrified yet exuberant as the front end rose a little off the path, the wind in our hair, humid summer air in our lungs. A smile crept its way onto my face, despite it all. 

Yeah, he was a crazy old coot.

It took a quarter of an hour to maneuver the Town Car all the way to the cul-de-sac in front of the farmhouse, now overgrown by tall grass and weeds. I half-expected to roll over a discarded hoe or nail and lose a tire to the mire. Thankfully, graciously, I rolled to a stop parallel to the porch, pulling around the stone fountain, whose spout had broken off and fallen into a puddle of brackish rainwater in the basin. I turned the engine off, pulled the key out, grabbed the envelope, and stepped out into the evening air. I couldn’t see the dying sun due to the treeline, but the red sky above portended an end and, I supposed, a beginning. The farmhouse itself was in a surprisingly serviceable state. The paint was all but weathered off, but the paneling was only slightly warped and it didn’t sag on its supports. The shingling was spotty, but the roof appeared more-or-less intact. The solid mahogany front door stood like a sentinel awaiting my arrival. Except for the large “JP” carved into the upper left corner before it was finished, the door looked as immaculate as the first time I saw it, driving up in my father’s truck. The windows were broken but had been sturdily boarded up long before that, likely promptly after the old man shut down operations. No-one had the heart (or legal authority, for that matter) to continue operating his farm without him.

Opening the envelope again, I unfolded the papers inside.

 

_ “Henry, _

_ You know that I’ve always considered you a kindred spirit. You’re different from your brothers and sisters. They had their hobbies, their interests, their careers, but they never appreciated the Farm quite as you did. Not to disparage them; their interests lie elsewhere and there isn’t anything wrong with that. . .” _

 

I skipped several pages, already well-acquainted with all of them, to re-read the end of the final paragraph.

 

_ “. . .forgive me for saying so, but lately you have been so” I saw that his handwriting was clearer and much more deliberate here, “coldly focused on your new studies. My thoughts on the mega-conglomerates like Jojacorp are more than well-documented, but I respect that you are very talented at what you do and that you will no doubt achieve much in whatever you pursue.  You’ve always been that kind of man, Henry. _

_ Perhaps it will not be the night that you read this, perhaps it will not be for years after. But there will come a time when the Henry from the Farm, from those nights under the stars, from those mornings picking grapes off the trellises, comes back to us. _

_ I pray sooner rather than later you realize that, just as I did, you  need Invictus. There’s a reason our forefather named that patch of dirt in the Valley what he did, Henry.  _

_ I’m leaving it all to you, Henry. Take Invictus. Become the master of your fate, the captain of your soul.  _

 

_ With Much Love, _

_ Gramps _

_ P.S. You’ll find the instructions for distilling my fine starfruit wine under the floorboards, in a safe. Have fun with the combination!” _

 

My vision blurred as it traced over the words yet again, even despite his last-second, posthumous levity. After a moment, I tore off the keys that were taped to the inside of the envelope and cycled through to find the house key.

Approaching the porch, I crept up the steps, the stained oak boards creaking in a rather unsettling manner beneath my rather incongruous dress shoes. With a tentative hand, I slid the key into the lock. The tumblers were fussy, by with some effort I managed to turn the key and heard the deadbolt slide open. I placed my gloved hand on the rusty handle, pausing. I turned back to the rest of the farm.

The cabins weren’t built by my grandfather. It showed. Ian’s old shack, across the way, had totally collapsed in on itself. Only a broken concrete foundation and splintered boards remained. The bunkhouse, barns and stables were out of view, but I doubted they’d have fared much better. Surveying what I could only assume used to be the fields yielded only overgrowth and an irresponsible number of oak and maple trees. The sustainable tree farms my grandfather used to maintain have clearly gotten out of hand. I’d have to clear and till all of this before I could get any sort of self-sustaining operation up and running. I estimated I’d be running at a loss for at least a few years.

“Look on my works ye mighty, and despair,” I muttered, finally pushing the handle and turning back to the farmhouse. Metal protested and rust shaved off as I opened that old mahogany door, stepping into Gramps— _ my _ —house.

~~

The man who introduced himself as Mayor over the phone had instructed me to stop by Pelican Town and speak to him before heading out to the Farm, but I’ll admit I’ve never been too good of a follower. A Peters was the last one to set foot on it when it closed down, and a Peters should have been the first one to open it back up. Gramps, I supposed, would have wanted it that way. 

I didn’t go further in than the hallway. It was dark now and I could hear something rooting around deeper in the house. I merely reminisced at the coat rack, the bowl for the keys, and the picture-frames on the walls. A young man and young woman, smiling in front of the newly-constructed farmhouse. You couldn’t see it in the photos, but their hands were bandaged from the work. The young man, now older, standing next to a limber mustang in the stables. Several kids in a bard, the young woman, now older, appearing to corral them towards something. I saw my father in the herd. I scoffed. He was an ugly little kid. Then again, so was I. We hadn’t inherited my Gramps’ rugged good looks. Thanks, Dad.

I planned to head into town in the morning, but I wanted to spend a night by myself. I had rolled up a few shirts and draped myself with my winter coat and slept in the back seat of the Town Car. As far as cars went, it was one of the better ones to lie down in, but it was still just a car at the end of the day, leather seats or no. The doors were locked, windows cracked just a smidgen so I wouldn’t bake. I planned to be up before sunrise anyhow. There was a rustling in a treeline that made the hackles on my neck rise.

I lay awake for some time before whatever was moving about in the treeline moved on to somewhere else. After that, I had some time to myself before I could will myself to sleep.

It wasn’t very pleasant.

~~

I pulled up to what a sign informed me was “Pierre’s General Store” at about seven in the morning. I saw the posted hours started at nine. Great.

Leaning against the wall of the store, next to what looked like a municipal ashtray/trash can, I fished that old indulgence out of my pocket. In a practiced motion, I shook the cigarette out of the carton, pulled it out with my lips and flicked open my silver-plated Zippo. As I took a drag, I looked at the logo and inscription on the lighter. “Jojacorp, 10 years of service!”

Scowling, I tossed the lighter into the trash. The carton itself was a premium Joja brand. I tossed them too. I looked at my Town Car. The front plate was still marked as a Joja company car. If it could have somehow fit into the trash can, and I could have walked back to the farm, I’d have tossed it too.

After a bit of waiting, I decided to take a stroll around town.

This early in the morning, it the streets, if you could call them that, were still deserted, save for a scraggly-looking man walking through the square, eyes down, shoulders slumped, gait quick but purposeless. We passed each other without a word. 

There were only a few houses, and only a couple of local businesses. A single bar/restaurant, a clinic, a general store. There were some other buildings that appeared to be closed down, as well as a few across the river, which was more of a stream. I could see smoke rising from the chimney of a rather peculiar building.

Despite annual retreats to Invictus Farm, I never visited Pelican Town. Or, rather, I never  _ remembered _ visiting Pelican Town. It was entirely possible I had taken trips down in my youth, forgotten in the haze of age.

I sat on one of the bridges for some time, watching the calm water flow beneath my feet, slowly losing myself in labyrinthine thoughts.  _ Oh, when times get tough, and friends just can’t be found. . .  _ I smirked to myself. In fact, hadn’t realized just how much time had passed until someone called out to me.

“Howdy!”

My head snapped around, and I admit I almost fell into the river. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya!” An older man with a familiar voice stood before me on the bridge. He had his thumbs hooked in his suspenders, which also struck me as familiar. I swung my legs over and stood, dusting my pants. I must have been quite a sight, with my hastily-combed hair, sunken and dreary ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ eyes, and disheveled, slept-in suit. “I’m Lewis. You must be Henry Peters.”

“Process of elimination?”

Lewis chuckled. “Oh, I remember you from when you were very tiny, Henry.”

“Mr. Peters, if you don’t mind.”

Lewis’ eyes widened a moment. “Uh, well, my apologies, Mr. Peters.” He recovered quickly, however. “Pierre just opened his shop, so I can introduce you to him. He has agreed to provide you some temporary lodging until the old farmhouse can be made livable again. I imagine there’s a laundry list of things that need to be fixed before it’s up to code, and all that. . .”

“They have a spare bedroom somewhere?”

Lewis hesitated. “They have a very comfortable couch.”

I shrugged it off. “How much is he charging a night?”

Lewis shook his head, “Oh, no charge. Here, come with me and I’ll introduce you. I imagine you’ll be bringing him quite a bit of business, so I imagine he’s going to do this  _ pro bono _ .”

As we walked and talked, I noticed that the sign now read “OPEN!” in hand-painted script. Quaint.

A jingling bell announced my arrival as I stepped through the door. A brown-haired, bespectacled man I assumed to be Pierre met my eye, saw my clothing, and scowled.

“I told you Joja types to—”

Lewis filed in behind me, which gave him pause.

“Pierre! Meet Henry Peters! You know, the new farmer?”

A look of confusion came over Pierre’s face, but was almost immediately replaced by a salesman’s smile. “Oh, welcome! Sorry about that misunderstanding, I’ve just been having some issues with—Oh, you know, it doesn’t matter. Come in, come in!” He waved me over. I stepped in, taking a look around. A homely little mom-and-pop shop, even if it seemed like it could use a few touch-ups and a good scrubbing. Bins contained various products, although I noticed his selection was rather limited for a general store and certainly pricey for the brands on selection. There were even some products labeled as “Homegrown, right here in the Valley!” with a large smiley-face next to the words. Jars of preserves, some butters, that sort of thing. There was some fresh produce as well.

“I didn’t run the store back when your grandfather was in charge, but my father used to brag about how much your old man could ship out in a harvest. And the  _ variety! _ ”

I furrowed my brows, frowned a bit. “So, about lodging—”

“Oh, it’s all taken care of. You can stay with us for a few days! Robin and Lewis will take you out to the Farm and get it all cleared out and ready for habitation again, but until then, consider yourself an honored guest of Pierre’s General Store!”

_ Does he ever stop advertising? _

“ _ Pro bono? _ ”

“Of course!”

I reached into my blazer and pulled out my wallet. I approached his counter. “I’ll do a hundred G a night.” I placed a bill on the counter. It was made of different kinds of paper and thread, but had been dyed with special golden ink. It bore the face of some Senator or President and denoted being worth one hundred gold pieces. 

Pierre raised an eyebrow at me, looked me over. I could see the way he was eying the money. “Oh, I understand. You don’t want to impose! Well, rest assured—”

I pushed the bill across the counter. Lewis watched the exchange with a bewildered expression.

“Wh—Hm. Well, I suppose if it would ease your conscience, I will accept these terms,” Pierre said, taking the bill off the counter and putting it in the register, which opened with a comically cheery  _ ding! _ “But I consider this to cover the whole of your stay!”

“That’s fine.”

“Well,” he said, uncertain. I could tell that this was not how he imagined this meeting to go. “Uh. . .” He turned to the doorway off to his left. “Caroline! Our guest is here!”

“Coming!” called a warm voice. Soon enough, a woman appeared in the doorway,  _ with green hair _ . I suppressed my reaction to a mere eyebrow-raise, but I suspect she noticed. “Hello,” she said, carefully, “I’m Caroline, Pierre’s wife. And you must be Henry—”

“Mr. Peters.”

“Mr. Peters,” she repeated without missing a beat. 

“Honey, would you show him where he’ll be sleeping?” Pierre said after a bit of an awkward pause.

“Of course. Right this way,” Caroline said, gesturing further down the hallway. Following her, I could just make out a whispering behind me.

“Strange fellow.” Lewis.

“Pretty standoffish, if you ask. . .”

“And~, here we are,” Caroline said, gesturing to the couch, which already had a folded blanket and pillow placed on it.

“Thank you, Mrs. . .?”

“Oh, just Caroline.”

“Mrs. Just Caroline.”

It took her a split-second, but she cracked a giggle. I shouldn’t be this difficult with the couple that’s offered to shelter me indefinitely, but I suppose old habits die hard.

“If you see Abigail, say hi,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to cooking breakfast. You’re welcome to eat with us when it’s ready,” she said, making her way to the kitchen.

“I appreciate the generosity,” I said. Even with Pierre’s ulterior motive, I couldn’t discern anything but earnestness in her eyes.  _ Wait, _ I thought,  _ she mentioned a name. _ “Abigail is. . .?”

“My—our, daughter.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I look forward to meeting her.”

“And I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to meet you. It’s not every day someone new moves into town!”

“No,” I said. “I suppose not.”

~~

I didn’t stay for breakfast.

After buying a new pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter from Pierre and a session of filling out forms at Lewis’ home office, I rode with the aging mayor in his well-maintained old Chevrolet up to Invictus Farm. I was told we’d be meeting a woman named Robin, the town’s carpenter. Lewis navigated the saplings better than I had, even without power steering.

Pulling up to the cul-de-sac, I saw another,  _ much _ newer, Dodge parked in front of the farmhouse. A woman with auburn hair in a practical ponytail and sensible yet stylish clothing was examining the farmhouse intently, not even looking up at us as we pulled up.

“Morning, Robin!” Lewis called, walking across the circle drive. 

The woman looked over, and a smile broke across her face. “Morning, Lewis! And you must be Henry!”

“Oh, he prefers ‘Mr. Peters,’” Lewis said. 

“Mr. Peters, then,” Robin said, offering her hand as I approached. We shook hands; her grip was firm and her hands were calloused. “I have to admit, when I heard someone was coming in to take over the place, I expected someone younger.”

“Robin!” Lewis looked absolutely mortified by the gentle ribbing.

Robin shrugged nonchalantly, crossing her arms and turning back to the house. She looked to be only a few years older than I was, which made sense. You’d expect someone a bit younger to be chasing this idealistic kind of dream. At our age, you typically were settled into your life. . . I noticed her wedding band. I imagine her life wasn’t as turbulent as mine.

“Yep, she’s a fixer-upper. It’ll take a lot of work to get her all prettied up again,” Robin said, then went listing off a veritable smorgasbord of issues and flaws she could find in the place. “. . .and that’s just the exterior. Still, it’s in remarkable good condition, considering it’s gone without maintenance for, what, twenty, thirty years?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Well, we can come out here for the next few days and get the big stuff out of the way, make sure it’s not infested, make sure it’s structurally sound, make sure there aren’t any  _ deadly molds _ . . .” she looked at me for a reaction. I was statuesque, in the sense that I was very still. She tilted her head. “Are you a cyborg or something?”

“Just tired, I suppose.”

“Ah, I imagine. It’s quite a ways from. . . ah, where did you come down from, again?”

“Haverlance, in the plains.”

“Haverlance! So you’ve been on the road for a day or two?”

I nodded.

“In that Town Car?” Lewis said. “Must’ve cost a fortune in gas.”

I nodded with a frown.

“Speaking of fortunes, as much as I’d love to help out a new friend, you  _ do _ realise that I don’t work for free?” Robin said, with a friendly smile.

“Of course. I imagine you’ve worked up a quote?”

“Well, to get things up and running, I’d say. . .” Robin bit her lip and examined the house again. She waited for a bit. “Ten big ones, once you add it all up. Now, I understand that may sound like a lot, and I know you’re just starting out, so I’m sure we could work out some kind of credit or loan—”

I shook my head. “I still have some money left over from my old job. And my grandfather left me a sum to kickstart the old place back into action.”

Robin’s eyes opened a bit at that. I could swear she was looking at me like a gold mine. “I was also going to add that if you’d come out and help chop down some of these oak trees, I could knock some of the material cost off the price tag.”

My eyebrows went up. “Quite nice of you. I’ll take you up on that.”

“I can lend you a spare axe until you get your supplies sorted out. Have you been to see Clint yet?”

“He’s just gotten into town,” Lewis interjected. “He’s only met Pierre and Caroline.”

“Not Abigail?” Robin asked.

“Didn’t come out of her room. Sleeping in, I imagine,” I said.

Robin scoffed and nodded. “ _ Prob-a-bly _ . Anyhow, Clint’s our handyman. He tends to handle anything mechanical. If your car breaks down, he can fix it up for you. He also makes tools and other goods, like sprinklers.”

“Ah, so we’ll be very well acquainted by the end of the year.”

“Probably!” Robin said with a laugh. After a moment, she spoke again. “Well, we can get started right away if you would like.”

“You don’t have other projects?”

“Oh, I do! Mending fences, righting mailboxes, etcetera. But I think this job is a little more urgent. I would imagine you’d like to sleep in your own bed, as opposed to a couch.”

I conceded the point.

“Well, I suppose that’s my cue to leave!” Lewis said, hooking his thumbs in his suspenders. “I’m a bit too old for all this manual labor. I’ll see you back in town, Mr. Peters!”

I returned Lewis’ wave as he went off to his truck.

“I assume you’ll give me a lift back to town?”

“Of course,” Robin said, going to her truck bed and unlatching her toolbox. “Here, take this.” She held out the handle of an axe to me. “I hope you’re ready to sweat, city-slicker,” she said, with a cocked eyebrow.

~~

The axehead hit the dirt, followed shortly by the handle. I sat myself down on the tarp like I was throwing a sack of potatoes down, and I immediately went to lie on my back.

“I’ll admit, you lasted longer than I thought you would.”

“ _ Phrasing _ , Robin.” I said between pants, laying my forearm across my eyes to block out the sun directly overhead. The carpenter laughed. I felt something cold on my stomach. My free hand found a icy water bottle. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” I heard Robin sit down across from me. Shutting my eyes tight, I opened the bottle and sat up a little. I drained three-quarters of it in one go, coughing as I pulled it away from my lips.

“Easy there, champ. You’ll vomit it back up.” When I opened my eyes, Robin was smiling at me, quite amused. I must have looked quite a sight.

“I’m not used to this level of manual labor,” I said, my breath slowing to a more casual pace.

“I can tell,” Robin said, opening her well-used picnic basket. Inside was a remarkably organized feast, fit for dukes and duchesses. She opened containers and unwrapped ingredients, and began fixing up a sandwich of some description. “So,” she began, “what  _ did _ you used to do?”

“I worked for a big company; a cog in the clockwork.”

“Oh? Which one?” she said, handing me a paper plate.

“Thank you. And, the Big One.”

Her face soured a bit. “Jojacorp?”

“The very same.”

“And what’d you do for them?” she asked, as I took a bite of the sandwich. It was quite good, though I supposed one had to get good at this sort of thing with a job like hers, otherwise lunch would be a disappointingly dull break from (sometimes literally) backbreaking labor.

“Accounting,” I lied. She opened her mouth to ask a question—my money was on ‘And what was that like?’—but I shifted conversational gears. “This is a damn good sandwich. You always pack your own lunches?” 

Robin gave me a fleeting sideways glance—a bit of an obvious shift; you could feel the transmission grinding—but continued anyway. “My daughter, Maru, prepares them. She says it's her way of ‘giving back,’” Robin said, smiling now.

“Ah,” I said, nodding. “She definitely sounds like a more dutiful child than yours truly. So is Maru a chef?”

Robin snorted. “No, but she could be if she wanted to. She could really do anything she sets her mind to. She’s a nurse, you see, for Doctor Harvey. She’s working on a few degrees at home, though.”

“A  _ few _ ? Smart girl.”

“Isn’t she? Anyhow, I just wish I could find a way to motivate Sebastian to do something similar.” Overhead, a cloud passed in front of the sun. “Most days he just sits in his room, playing his computer games or locks himself in the garage to tune his motorcycle.” That’s the sometimes-charming, sometimes-infuriating thing about small-town folk. They speak to you as if they’ve known you forever. Thankfully, Robin didn’t seem the type to have pointless problems, so I listened thoughtfully as I munched on my sandwich.

“Sebastian is her brother?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Well, half-brother.”

“Oh?”

Robin grimaced. “I don’t like to talk about it very much, but they have different fathers. Demetrius, Maru’s father, is my second husband.”

_ Oh, so it was all above-board,  _ I thought.  _ And here I was hoping for something scandalous. _ “You said Sebastian is good with motorcycles?”

“Very much so.” A smoother shift. “He keeps his tuned himself. I’ve been thinking that for his birthday Demetrius and I might buy him a new one, or give him the money to get it himself. The one he has right now. . . It’s a money pit, but he loves it.” 

“What does he ride, if I may ask?”

“Oh, I don’t really get into cars and motorcycles. I know it’s a Harley-Davidson, but the model just escapes me.”

“Mm. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a Harley.”

“You ride?”

“Used to. I haven’t had a bike in. . .” I scratched my stubble. “Ten years?”

“What made you give it up?”

I set my now-empty plate beside me and placed my hands against the harsh blue tarp, looking up into the soft blue sky. “City traffic. It got so damn boring and tedious balancing my little Honda at a jam for half an hour. In my Town Car, I could at least have air conditioning and listen to my music.”

Robin perked up. “You didn’t strike me as the musical type.”

“I get that a lot.”

She gestured with her head for me to expound.

I expounded, “I’m not really picky when it comes to music, though I guess you could say I’m more a fan of specific bands than genres as a whole. In a word, my taste would be called eclectic. You put my playlist on shuffle and you’re going to get whiplash.” That got a laugh out of the carpenter. 

“I’m a fan of classical and jazz, myself,” Robin said. “There’s just something about orchestra and nature.” She set aside her plate and gazed out at the beaten-back treeline. “They’re opposites, when you think about it. One is extremely calculated and precise, the other is the very model of chaos. Yet the former can be used to express the latter.”

“And jazz?”

“Jazz is. . . I like it more live than I do recorded; it’s just hard to describe. It’s as if you gave music a life and a will, and let it do what it pleases, using the musician as a vessel.”

“So do you chop down trees because the Bachelor’s in Philosophy didn’t pan out?”

Robin almost blew a gasket laughing. I smiled with her, but didn’t really let out much more than a chuckle or two. She wiped a tear from her eye as she unscrewed the lid of her canteen and took a drink. “You know, you’ve got a pretty sharp wit there, Peters.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said as she cleaned up the plates and closed the basket. “So I’ve been told.”

~~

By the time Robin and I returned to town, the sun had set and I was utterly exhausted. I slept through the half-hour drive, letting the truck’s AC wash over me with great relief. My hands were blistered and raw from the axe handle, even under the gloves Robin lent me. My muscles ached. Robin’s trailer was heavy with fallen tree trunks, felled by our collective might. . . moreso hers than mine. I am no wiry beanpole, but almost ten hours of hard labor was not something I was accustomed to.

“Hey, Peters.” Robin elbowed me, jolting me awake. “We’re here.”

We were parked next to my Town Car, in Pierre’s little parking lot. I noted with some mild concern a small white paper stuck under my wiper. Turning to Robin, I said, “Thank you for the lift and all your hard work. Oh, and for lunch.”

“And thank  _ you _ for giving me some new business! It gets so bland, re-shingling the same roofs month after month. This new project actually has me pretty pumped. Anyway, hop out, it’s late and I can hear my bed calling.” Robin extended her hand again, bridging the gap between us created by the console and cupholders. I took her hand, a bit more warmly than before. Pierre may be a bit of a tool, but these other townsfolk seem a decent sort.

“You live in town?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s back the way we came. I live sort of on the outskirts, where I have easy access to the forest and my husband has space for his experiments.”

“Experiments? Is he a mad scientist?”

Robin laughed. “Oh, no, he’s just a botanist. Well, he dabbles in a lot of fields, really, like zoology, geology, and. . . well, I bet you’ll meet him eventually.”

“In a town this small, it’s inevitable. See you bright and early tomorrow, Robin.” I turned to the door and unlatched it.

“Oh!” she said, and I stopped, my foot on the pavement. I turned back to her. “Tomorrow, you’ll want to stop by the clinic and get an account set up with Doc Harvey. My daughter, Maru, works for him, remember?”

“I look forward to meeting her,” I said, giving her a nod. I took my leave, closing the door. She gave me a wave as she pulled out of the parking lot and drove down Main Street, turning off to leave town.

The flyer on my car was a tongue-in-cheek note from Pierre to get my “dusty hunk of junk” out of the prime parking spot, as it was “scaring customers away!” I chuckled as I pocketed the note. At least he has a decent sense of humor.

The shop door declared the place closed but I found it unlocked. A note at the register from Caroline said that she had saved a plate of dinner for me and that I could find it in the fridge, and that I should lock up when I came in. Walking back to the door, I turned the deadbolt and headed further inside.

Dinner was some kind of casserole, covered with plastic wrap. A small note was attached with reheating instructions. Following them to the letter, I removed the wrap, punched in the time on the microwave, and watched the dish rotate as it was bombarded with, well, microwaves. The house was dark and still, except for the light and whir of the microwave itself.

“Hey.”

I jumped, turning around fast enough for my muscles to scream in protest. I found, to my disbelief, a  _ purple-haired _ girl, quite a few years my junior. It was dark, but her expression felt harsh and weighty upon me.

“I saw your car.”

The microwave continued to whir behind me.

“You work for Joja?”

“No.”

Disbelief registered on her face. “No?”

“Not any more.”

She crossed her arms. “So they just let you keep the car?”

“They weren’t in a position to take it back.”

At this, her expression softened a little, became curious. “Did you. . .  _ steal _ a company car?”

“Company paid— _ pays _ —for it. Car’s in my name.”

“They’re not gonna want that money back?”

“They’re welcome to try.”

The girl I presumed to be Abigail giggled a little. Her eyes had taken on a lens of wonder at what must have seemed to her revolutionary civil disobedience. Really, I was just exploiting a minor legal loophole. Joja could stomach the loss of one Town Car.

“Name’s Abigail,” she said, stepping closer and extending a hand. I took it, getting a better look at her now that she stepped into the dim light of the microwave. She was wearing an anti-trend-trendy t-shirt and pajama pants with cutesy, stylized skulls on them. Her socks had little cartoon pumpkins sewn into them. Odd girl.

“Henry Peters, but I’m guessing you knew.” The microwave beeped and I went to remove my meal.

“Everyone knows your name by now, Henry.” I sat down and started eating. Caroline was quite the cook, though I already knew that from breakfast this morning. 

“Mr. Peters.”

She gave me the side-eye. “Uh, okay, ‘ _ Mr. Peters,’ _ ” she said, parodying my voice. I rolled my eyes at her. “Have a nice meal, dude,” she called over her shoulder as she left the kitchen. “And let me know if you get that stick out of your ass.” I snorted at that potshot.

When I finished my meal, I washed the plate off in the sink and placed my silverware in the ‘dirty’ rack. I started taking off my blazer and vest, which were already unbuttoned as I had removed them while at the farmhouse to work, and set them on the floor by my makeshift bed. 

Pulling the blanket over myself, I sighed.

I suppose it could have been a worse first days. I made a few acquaintances, got started on fixing up the Farmhouse, and I never complain about free meals. 

The past is past. The future lay ahead. I have many apples left to pick on the boughs. I am not yet in the winter of my years. Starting tomorrow, I’ll make more of an effort with these townsfolk. I got on well enough with Robin, right? I’m sure I could recover from my gaffes.

My eyes closed, and I awaited the beginning of a new day.


	2. Chapter 2 - Siberian Khatru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Robin continue to work on the Farmhouse, beginning to uncover some of its hidden treasures. On lunch break, Henry meets some new faces.

**Chapter 2 - Siberian Khatru**

My eyes fluttered open. The room was still dark. I closed my eyes, rolled onto my shoulder. I pleaded with myself for another few hours of sleep, though I could already tell I wouldn’t be getting any. Slowly, I climbed out of bed, trying not to wake—

Trying not to wake who?

_ That’s right. Pierre’s General Store. _

The soreness in my shoulders, back, and legs reminded me of what I had been doing yesterday. A full day of back-breaking labor with a rather skilled carpenter. And another day of the same ahead of me.

My mind drifted back to the year or two I worked the Farm as a teenager, in its heyday, before Gramps’ illness. Even with his financial resources, he handed me a steel hoe and told me to get to work. Then, he made me redo it when the tilled soil wasn’t straight enough for neat rows of parsnips. I loved my Grandfather, but I hated him that year. I chuckled to myself. Tough love, he called it, and tough love it was. Those two years instilled in me the work ethic I needed to power through my plague of perpetual torpor. Without his driving hand, I wouldn’t have made it through high school, let alone college and beyond. 

Returning to the present, I took a closer look around Pierre’s house, only having really given it a cursory glance when I met Caroline and when I stumbled in during the evening. 

There was a door in the corner of the house that I hadn’t seen before. It was ajar, and I could see a glint of something golden beyond.

_ Well, since I’m already up. _

Walking over and touching my fingertips to the door, I gently opened it.

Before me lay, to my immense surprise, a rather ornate shrine room dedicated to Yoba. I hadn’t taken Pierre for a godly man. 

Crossing the threshold, I walked among the pews, letting my fingertips trace over the fine, varnished wood. The room smelled like any other indoor shrine to the Earth-God: Pine-Sol, musty old pages, communion wine, and desperation. 

I took a seat in the front pew, eying the gilded altar in the dim light coming in from the window.  _ Is this a part of your divine plan? Invictus, Joja, those damn oak trees, Robin, Pierre. . . _

I vaguely remembered Gramps’ sigil of Yoba over his hospital bed. My father was never much of a believer and he didn’t make me attend services. He and Gramps fought over that a bit. Of course, I didn’t want to go. I was young, I had things to do, places to be—the typical delusions of youth. Perhaps my father was right to keep me away from the uncertain world of spirituality, perhaps he was wrong, but through a long and convoluted train of events I had arrived in another damned shrine. Or blessed, as it were.

Despite my ambivalence to the whole affair, there was just something about places like shrines that encouraged introspection. It didn’t matter if you tried to fight it, you’d find yourself dragged beneath the surface and pulled along the current. Front porches, dark bedrooms, and empty two-lane highways have the same effect. I imagined how must’ve I looked: leaning back in an otherwise-empty pew in a dark shrine at four A.M., eyes glassy and unfocused as my mind turned onto Memory Lane and opened the throttle. Flashes, bits and pieces, floated into my consciousness before disappearing just as fast; cold rooms full of cold people, one resonant voice carrying over them all, a gray-haired woman crying, dark newspaper print, wind in the newborn leaves, doors slamming, sirens blaring, clear bottles with dark liquids, shouting, arguing, pleading, more doors, clothes thrown around, suitcases packed, the doors again, engine revving. . .

“Mr. Peters?”

By then, I must have developed a reputation for being jumpy.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb your prayer, I just didn’t know who was in here,” Caroline said.

“It’s alright—I wasn’t praying.”

Her expression begged a question.

“I was just thinking, is all. I have trouble sleeping sometimes.”

“Oh. I think Pierre has some sleeping medication, and I’ve got a few home remedies myself—”

“It’s fine, I wouldn’t want to put you folks out any more than I already am.” Caroline began to protest, but I gently cut her off, rubbing my eyes. “What time is it?”

Caroline checked a watch that didn’t exist, then leaned her head back through the threshold to check what I assumed to be a clock out of view. “Seven.”

_ Seven? _ Looking behind her—yep, the sun definitely rose while I was in my little reverie. “Well, thanks for checking on me, Mrs. Just Caroline,” I said, pushing myself to standing.

“I can get breakfast started soon,” she said. “What’ll you have?”

“Oh, I’ll buy something from the General Store, I wouldn’t—”

“‘Want to put us out,’ I know,” Caroline said, putting her hands on her hips. She adopted that ‘scolding’ stance all mothers seem to intuitively know, and I knew I would be eating breakfast with the family today. “Now, Mr. Peters, you were out working in the sun all day yesterday and I will  _ not _ let you leave this house again unless you do so with a full stomach and that is the final word.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Dealer’s choice, then.”

Caroline gave me a radiant smile. “Give me fifteen minutes, Mr. Peters.” Behind her, I could hear someone shuffling into the living room—money’s on Pierre. She turned and left me with the altar and my thoughts.

_ I need a smoke. _

~~

Standing in the alley behind the General Store, I flicked my wrist to open my Zippo only to realize that I had tossed the damn thing yesterday and I was flailing a Bic in my hand to no avail. A moment and a Bic-flicking later, I took a comforting drag from one of Pierre’s cigarettes. The rat-bastard had some good brands, that was for certain. Off to the side, I could see a lonely, ancient gas pump.  _ Well, I suppose that answers my question about the lack of a gas station. _

I heard the screen door open behind me. “Hey, Pete.”

“Abigail.” Her voice was almost totally devoid of energy, and that sassy edge from the night previous was gone.

“Breakfast.”

“Mm.”

Heading inside, I saw the poor thing shuffle zombie-like into the kitchen. Odds are, Caroline wasn’t too happy about her lack of a warm reception for me yesterday. Alternatively, she was following her nose, because I could smell the sizzling sausage and eggs even over the lingering smoke. 

Caroline didn’t pull her punches for today’s breakfast. Sausage and eggs, naturally, but I saw a small assortment of other dishes; grits, hash-browns, pancakes. Curiously, no pancake-mix to be seen.

Abigail reached out with a fork to collect a pancake for her plate. Caroline’s hand nearly broke the sound barrier, slapping her on the wrist. “Abby! Where are your manners? The guest eats first!”

‘Abby’ was not pleased. She gave her mother a side-eye that portended a little more than post-adolescent rebellion.

“It’s fine, really. It doesn’t look like she’s been up this early in years.”

“I haven’t,” she mumbled, collecting a few pancakes anyway and drowning them in maple syrup.

Caroline offered me a plate and I began fixing myself a little feast. She placed milk and orange juice on the table, but I asked her as she passed for water. Despite my desires, I avoided the decadently-greasy sausage, looking full and tempting in the skillet. I didn’t want to retch all over Invictus, did I?

“So,” I said, setting my plate down and taking a seat at the table in the kitchen, “about the Yoba shrine. . .”

“Pierre’s grandfather had it installed. He was  _ quite _ pious.”

“And y’all?”

“ _ Y’all? _ ” Abigail cut in.

It was her turn to receive the side-eye. “It may astonish you to learn this, but I’m from the South as well.”

“You’re not from the city?” Caroline asked, setting a plate down for herself and one for Pierre, who was just walking in.

“I moved here from there but I wasn’t born and raised a ‘city-slicker,’ as Robin would say.”

“Speaking of, how is the Farmhouse coming along?” Pierre asked, sitting.

“It’ll take a few more days of hard labor, but it’s coming along quite nicely—mm, this is quite good—and we’re going to start on the interior today, now that we’ve trimmed back the treeline.”

“Oh, sounds like fun,” Caroline said, with that peculiar small-talk inflection. Across from her, her daughter wordlessly picked away at her syrup-soaked pancakes. I’ve always found it curious how families pretend tension doesn’t exist when they have company over, as if it stopped existing the moment they stopped observing it.

A minute or so more into the meal, Pierre finally tipped his hand. “So, Mr. Peters, when do you think you’ll get seeds in the ground?” 

I shrugged, continuing to chip away at my meal.

Pierre nodded, quietly chewing on his eggs. A moment’s hesitation, then, with manufactured casualness,“And do you have any idea what you’ll be planting? I want to get a sense—”

“Dear, you’re boring Mr. Peters. Let’s not talk business at the table.” Caroline to the rescue!

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” is precisely what Pierre expected me to say. I stayed silent, taking a generous sip of water.

“Sorry. I just—you know, every time I close my eyes I see the numbers from the ledgers!” Pierre said, waving his hand and adopting a comic tone. Flecks of grease flew off his fork as he moved, and I could see Caroline’s smile dim almost imperceptibly. “Got to—got to stay in the black, you know?”

An uncomfortable beat. “Yeah, I know,” I said.

Abigail stood up, dumping her plate in the sink and leaving. I heard her door close just a bit louder than was necessary. Pierre sighed.

“Well,” I said, wiping my mouth with one of their napkins, “I think I’m going to go for a stroll.”

~~

Pelican Town hadn’t really woken up yet when I stepped out into the morning air. I saw the same bleary-eyed drifter pass through the town square. As before, I didn’t bother him, nor he me.

I was laying on the footbridge’s stone railing, smoking, the water coursing under me, when Robin found me.

“I see you tracked down some more appropriate clothing,” she said, her sunny disposition practically forcing me to crack a smile.

“Yeah,” I said, sitting up. I was now wearing a sturdy pair of jeans and a white cotton t-shirt from my luggage as well as a pair of brown work boots I had taken from Pierre’s shelves on my way out. I left the money on the counter, of course. 

“You driving yourself today?”

“Nah, I’ll have Pierre fill up the Town Car and I’ll meet you up there. What’s on the agenda today?”

“I want to get that porch ripped up and replaced before we start moving things in and out of the house. Don’t want to be carrying, like, a piano and then one of the rotten boards breaks and now there’s six-hundred pounds of wood, high-tension wire and ivory coming down on us. That should take us, oh, say, until lunch. Before we leave, though, we should do a thorough inventory of the house so I’ll know what I need to bring back from my shop when we come back from lunch. Insulation, window panes, vinyl siding, etcetera.”

“We’re not picnicking again?”

Robin chuckled. “Hell no. It’s Friday—Happy Hour at the Stardrop Saloon.”

“You want to get drunk and swing axes?”

“I want to get drunk and lubricate door hinges. Not nearly as dangerous.”

“But not nearly as cathartic, either.”

She conceded the point. “But seriously, I don’t drink while I’m on the job,” she said as she gestured back towards Pierre’s parking spots. Time to go to work.

~~

Robin didn’t tell me she was bringing her son to, and I quote, “get off his ass off the couch and get to work,” but I could see him in my rear-view mirror, browsing his phone, sitting beside his mother in her Dodge. We hadn’t been introduced, on account of his staying in the truck when Robin went to get me, but I could tell he seemed like a sulky type. More like the drifter that I saw heading to work in the morning than Mrs. Sunshine, Smiles, and Sawdust.

Either way, I hoped he wouldn’t be the team millstone. Even with my holding Robin back, we had worked out a pace that we found comfortable and efficient. 

I pulled off the highway and we started up the path to the Farmhouse, passing by the fallen gate. Yet another thing to pay Robin to replace.

Rolling up into the cul-de-sac, I drove the Town Car off the pavement and onto the dirt trail leading to the carport out back. I put it in park and turned off the engine, stepping out into the fresh air. I could hear the Dodge turning off and doors opening and closing. 

“Peters! Come help me unload!” Robin called. I walked around the respectably-sized Farmhouse, and saw her standing in her truck-bed. Her son was leaning against the blue Dodge, wearing black skinny jeans and a black, long-sleeved crewneck. His long black hair fell over his bleary face as he thumbed through something on his phone, white wires leading up to his ears.  _ Damn kid’s gonna bake _ . Like Abigail, it didn’t look like he got up this early very often.

“What about Alice Cooper here? He’s got arms,” I said, hopping up onto the tailgate. Sebastian must not have heard me, because he didn’t visibly react. I saw an assortment of materials for making a little “base camp,” as Robin had described it. There were several long planks of wood, which I recognized to be freshly-cut and sealed oak. She must have milled and treated them last night. Robin herself was standing expectantly by a large wooden table with metal supports and a large radial saw attached. Next to it, a free-standing generator and a few jerry cans of gasoline.

“Sebastian’s going to help rip up the old porch and help clean up the interior, when we get to that.”

“He knows there’s no working AC in there, right?”

Robin frowned. “Well, it’s not like we have a dress code. . . But I did tell him he might want to wear regular jeans. No dice.”

I shrugged. “His problem,” I said, taking up position on the other side of the saw. 

“One, two,  _ three, _ ” Robin counted, grunting as we hefted up the table and shuffled to the side. We set it down with a sigh on the edge of the tailgate. “Alright, Sebastian, we’ll need your help on this one.” I cast a glance over my shoulder, looking at the back of his head. He didn’t move. “Sebastian. Seb—Will you get his attention, please?” I slapped my hand against the side of the truck twice. Sebastian started and looked over, pulling out his earbuds. I could hear his music even from where I was standing.

“ _ What _ ?”

“Little help?” I said, eyebrow cocked.

“Oh, right,” he said, walking over. 

“Just hold it up as we’re lowering it, make sure it doesn’t fall. Think you can do that, honey?” Robin said.

“Yeah, Mom,” he mumbled, readying himself and holding up his hands.

“One, two,  _ three _ ,” and we lifted it again. We pulled it over the edge and began to lower it. The muscles in my arms and back sent needles of pain up my spine as we held it out, awkwardly. It felt six times heavier this way.

“You got it, Seb?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his voice strained as he widened his stance a little.

“Alright, Peters, let go, hop down, and help him put it down,” Robin said, sweat beading on her forehead.

As soon as I started to lessen my hold on the table, I felt it start to dip towards Sebastian. “Hold it hold—you gotta hold it up!” I said.

“I am, I am!”

“Hold it up  _ more _ !” I said.

“You’re doing fine,” Robin said.

“Just gotta get a better. . . grip,” Sebastian said, grunting as he shifted his hands across the table. As the distribution of force changed, the table/saw dipped again and started to flip. Robin shot out a hand and caught one of the handholds on the saw, stopping it from capsizing completely.

“Easy, Seb, warn us when you’re going to do that,” she chastised. 

“ _ Sorry _ ,” he said.

“Look, let’s just set it down and you get up here, honey. I can hold it as it comes down.”

“No, Mom, I’ve got it.”

I looked to Robin. She nodded then said, “Okay, let’s try it again. Peters is going to shift the weight to you, Seb.”

“Right,” he grunted, as I began to do so.

I finally took my hands off the table completely, quickly hopping down and standing next to him, putting my hands on the table and lifting the weight from him. “Alright!” I grunted, and Robin let go as Sebastian and I set down the table, a little harder than Robin wanted, judging by her cringing as the legs stuck into the dirt.

Robin hopped down and Sebastian leaned against the tailgate, breathing heavier than I expected. He pulled the cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows. “Come on Peters, let’s set it over by the east wall.”

~~

When Robin said she’d be setting up base camp at the farm, she damn well meant it. We had erected a large blue awning, set up against the east wall, where we put the planks, tool boxes, and break table, which held sunscreen and a giant water cooler. Sebastian got to work with the lawnmower while Robin took measurements of the porch and its various dimensions, then double- and triple-checked each measurement. Meanwhile, Robin had me start sorting the planks. The planks with the best grains and patterning would go in whole on the porch, while the ones with knots, footballs, burns, or chips would be sawed into segments and make up the ends.

Once Robin had her measurements, she called Sebastian over and handed him a hammer. I got a crowbar, and she had an axe—not the one she used for felling trees, this one looked rougher and cheaper.

“I want one of you at each end of this porch. You’ll need to pry each board loose. Careful about the nails, they’re likely very rusty after all these years. Peters, you up to date on your tetanus shot?”

I shook my head.

“We’ll take care of that during lunch break. Be  _ very _ careful, then. Here, take these.” She held out two pairs of gloves.

~~

I knelt in the dirt, and swung the crowbar up. The board buckled as the crowbar impacted below, and as old as the boards were, it didn’t give much resistance. It popped out of the joist and I pulled it off to the side.

“Damn,” Sebastian mumbled.

“What?” I said, leaning against the paneling of the house, wiping my forehead with my forearm.

“It’s too fuckin’ hot,” he said, sitting on one of the joists on his side. He was drenched in sweat.

“You need water.”

“I know.”

“You know black absorbs sunlight, right?”

“ _ I know. _ ”

I shrugged and pushed off the wall, staggering over to the awning. I grabbed Sebastian’s tumbler and filled it, then walked back around the house. Turning the corner, I saw that he was lighting a cigarette. I recognized the brand to be one of Joja’s bargain brands.

“Coffin nails,” I said.

His eyes flicked up to meet mine. I think he expected me to start proselytizing about the risk of lung cancer and chronic halitosis, etcetera and some such. 

“If you’re gonna suck down smoke, at least have some  _ dignity, _ damn.” I reached into my back pocket and tossed him my pack. He caught it without a word, his eyes pulling away from me as he turned the carton over in his hand.

“These are pretty expensive. You sure you want to share?”

“Yeah—in fact, keep the pack.” I said, closing the distance and offering him the tumbler. “Why do you buy that cheap shit anyway?”

“Can’t afford Pierre’s brands all the time. My mom will help me out with food and stuff, since I’m still living at home, but she refuses to,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “‘subsidize my bad habits.’”

“It  _ is  _ a terrible vice to have,” I said, snapping my fingers. He shook out a cigarette, which I placed between my lips. He handed me his lighter, and soon—sweet, sweet relief as the tobacco and carcinogens flooded my lungs. I turned my head and blew smoke, looking at the overgrown orchard and dilapidated stables. “I’ve never met a smoker that didn’t have a death wish.”

Sebastian snorted, but didn’t say anything else.

~~

I gave a small, semi-sarcastic cheer as Robin hammered the final nail into the new deck. Robin stood up, sighed in exhaustion, and gave a little bow. “Thank you, thank you,” she said, smiling. She turned to look at Sebastian, who was throwing yet another black trash bag filled with grass clippings into the Dodge’s bed. “You hungry, sweetie?”

“ _ Yeah! _ ” 

“Peters?”

I nodded.

“Grab some water and cool off, then we’ll head into town. Don’t get waterlogged though, and don’t eat anything you can’t keep down.”

Sebastian nodded, thankful, as he stumbled over to the awning and collapsed into the lawn chair set up by the break table. 

“I’m going to check on something before we head into town,” I said to Robin. She gave me a nod and went to get some water herself as I walked around to the carport out back. I pulled out my keyring and tried to guess which one unlocked the side door.

Evidently, fifth time’s the charm.

The door’s hinges were rusted and feisty, and I had to almost throw myself into the door to get it open all the way and had to slam it shut and lift it into the frame for it to latch again. I made a mental note to put that on Robin’s list of shit that needs fixing.

I turned to see what still lay in the carport. Well, it was part-carport, part-workshop. I could see woodworking materials on the far wall, along with a rather impressive wall of tools next to me, and almost a dozen Craftsman cabinets, no doubt filled with every kind of wrench and screwdriver in the whole of human invention. His collection was so thoroughly curated I wouldn’t even be surprised if Gramps’ ghost updated his collection from beyond the grave.

The light filtered through the dust disturbed by my entrance, falling on two large, sheet-covered shapes closer to me and the roller doors, along with a smaller one next to the workbench next to the Craftsman cabinets. Beyond the shapes I could see a car lift that  _ definitely _ was no longer OSHA-compliant.

I went to the roller door and pulled in the locks, then pushed it up with great effort. It definitely needed some WD-40, or even, and I was beginning to hate this word, replacing. At least now there was a breeze.

I went to the larger sheet-covered shape and gave it a mighty yank. The sheet pooled at my feet, revealing Gramps’ old, Palomino Tan ‘81 F-150. Thanks to the sheet, cosmetically, it looked the same as the day I first saw it. I remember when he drove it to pick me up the first time since he had gotten rid of his older ‘59 F-150. The tires were dry-rotted to all hell, but it looked to be in pretty good condition otherwise. I’d have to take a look under the hood, but if I knew my Gramps, he’d have set it up for storage correctly before he locked the place up.

And if  _ that _ was his truck, then this other vehicle, much shorter height- and length-wise, as well as narrower, must be. . . I lifted up the dust cover and caught but a glimpse of that beautiful chrome emblem and my heart skipped a beat. Thank Sweet Yoba above he didn’t sell it off. I let the dust cover back down and turned to the smallest vehicle.

I gingerly pulled this cover off, not wanting to knock the bike over, revealing a finely-styled Kawasaki.

“Holy  _ shit _ .”

I turned, and Sebastian was holding his tumbler, standing at the roller door and looking in.

“That’s a Kawasaki triple!” he said, and for the first time since I had met him, there was a shine to his eyes. He hurried over and started inspecting the bike. “A 1975 H2 Mach IV. It’s been out here this whole time?”

“‘72, actually, but yeah. My Gramps sold off his daily ride when he fell ill but he’s kept this here since he first bought it new from the dealership in Zuzu City.”

“Does it still run?” he asked, his eyes glazed over with amazement. “Can I touch it?”

“Probably not, and no. Not ‘till I have a good look at it.”

“I could do that for you!” he practically shouted, looking over at me with pleading eyes.

I gave him a flat look. But, still, Robin  _ did  _ mention he knew a thing or two about bikes, so. . . “I’ll think about it. I have to fix up the truck first.” I nodded my head over to the tan truck. He followed my gesture, seeing the other vehicles for the first time.

“What’s under that other sheet?”

“A _clown car_.”

It was his turn to give me a flat look.

“It’s a surprise.” Before he could respond, we heard the Dodge start up. “Robin must be ready to go,” I said. “Tell her I’ll be there in a second. I’ve got to lock up here.”

Sebastian nodded, seemingly unsatisfied with how our conversation went. I just wasn’t ready to put my grandfather’s bike in any hands other than my own. Hell, I wasn’t even really ready to put my own hands on it. Once he left through the roller door, I pulled it down and pushed out the locks. Before I left, however, I went to the wall of tools and to a small bookcase between the cabinets of tools. I opened the glass pane enclosing the books then skimmed my finger along the spines, before finally finding what I was looking for. “ _ CHILTON—FORD—PICK-UPS AND BRONCO—1980-96 REPAIR MANUAL. _ ” The backyard mechanic’s Bible. Pulling it out, I closed up the bookcase and left through the side door, making a stop by my Town Car’s trunk before joining Robin and Sebastian in the mercifully air-conditioned Dodge.

~~

The Stardrop Saloon was a pretty popular locale for lunch breaks, seeing as it was the only sort of restaurant in town, save the processed food stands in JojaMart. We were a bit early, however, as we walked in the doors at about eleven-thirty. It was just Robin and I—Sebastian had been dropped off at Robin’s house, since his duty of wrecking the porch was done. There weren’t many other patrons in the cozy little saloon quite yet; just two employees, a woman in her fifties, a younger red-head, and the sulker. The sulker was at one end of the bar—naturally—while the older woman nursed a beer at the opposite end. The redhead was spearing lettuce with a fork with one hand and reading a well-worn copy of  _ Walden _ with the other.

“That’s Leah,” said Robin, following my eyes. “She’s single.”

I gave her the side-eye.

“Just sayin’,” she said. She pointed to the older woman. “That’s Pam, a regular.” She didn’t mention the sulker in the JojaMart uniform, and I didn’t ask. “Go find a table, I need to powder my nose,” she said with a sarcastic smirk, leaving me by the door and starting to head off to a side room, where I imagined the restrooms were. She stopped, however, and turned on her heel. “Actually,” she said, lowering her voice, “Go say ‘hi’ to Leah. She doesn’t come into town too often, so this might be your only chance to schmooze with her.”

Again, the side-eye. She shrugged and left for the bathroom, so I surveyed the saloon again. There was a man behind the bar wiping down glasses in preparation for the lunch rush, which in this town was likely more of a lunch trickle. Also behind the bar, stocking the shelves, was a woman with blue hair. At that point, I was hardly surprised. She wore a fairly modest red dress with a polo-like collar, and a little black apron which had her scratch pad and a rainbow of multicolored pens. The dress seemed unique, She moved with an energy unlike the other townsfolk; Sebastian and the JojaMart Sulker lazed from activity to activity and Lewis kept a slow but hardly lazy pace in his advanced age, and even Robin had a gentle but firm work ethic that kept things moving along nicely without ever feeling rushed. This woman, however, was much like a honeybee—yes, exactly—buzzing around from one task to the next, humming quietly and contently to herself. When she turned, she smiled at me as if I was an old friend, finally back from a long sojourn. Under her warm gaze, it was hard to feel uncomfortable in the convivial little saloon.

“Howdy, Henry!” she said, giving a little curtsy. The bartender looked over, as well as Pam and Leah. The JojaMart Sulker cast a half-hearted glance over his shoulder but returned to his beer not a moment after. Suddenly the focal point of attention, I gave a little salute with two of my fingers and approached the bar. I could feel Leah’s eyes on me as I walked. When I looked her way, she just casually returned to reading  _ Walden. _ Pam gave me a grin as I approached.

“You like to drink, farmer?” she said, and I noticed the tell-tale redness of a gin blossom on her nose. She absolutely  _ reeked _ of alcohol, and could probably drink  _ me _ under the table. 

“I’m not a quite a farmer yet, but I do drink a bit,” I said, leaning my shoulders on the nice, varnished walnut bartop. It felt cool and easy through the sleeves of my jacket.

“Then we’ll get along  _ just fine _ ,” she said, chuckling and turning back to the bar.

The waitress extended a hand. “Emily, pleasure to meet you.”

“Henry Peters.” I took her hand. She gripped my hand confidently and firmly, never breaking eye contact with me.

“Name’s Gus,” said the portly bartender, giving me a wave from where he stood, which I promptly returned.

“So, Farmer Peters, you on lunch break?” Emily asked.

“Yeah. Robin and I just finished fixing the porch up at the farmhouse. We’re going to start on the interior when we get back.”

Gus gave me a quizzical look. “Robin’s making you work?”

“There’s a lot to do before the house is ready. My help makes it a lot faster. And cheaper.”

He shrugged, conceding the point. “Find a table. Emily will be right with you. First drinks on the house!” he said, giving me a friendly smile. He was definitely a little more earnest than Pierre and his typical salesman’s Cheshire grin. 

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” I said, smirking at him as I left the bar. I heard his booming laughter behind me as I approached Leah. Robin  _ did _ say she didn’t come into town much, so. . .

“Mind if I sit?” I said, plastering on my best smile.

“Not at all,” she said, gesturing her head to the chair across from her. I took it as she set down her book, dog-earring the page. I noticed there was a sketchpad by her right hand, with a intricate sketch of the river and footbridge in pencil. I could only imagine how it would look when it was completed. Leah herself was dressed in clean but obviously well-worn clothing; a green button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a darker green vest, with sun-faded jeans, a newer denim patch over one knee. Between that, the sketch pad, and  _ Walden _ . . .

“Starving artist?” I said, cocking an eyebrow.

Leah winced. “Go straight for the jugular, why don’t you?” She scoffed, seemingly at my audacity, but thankfully giggled a bit. “Yeah, I guess. Something like that. My art doesn’t exactly pay the bills, but,” she said, looking out the window, “I’ve done little else but work on it these past few months. I. . .” she paused, then looked back at me. “I’ve never been happier.”

“You moved to the Valley recently?”

Her faced became a bit cloudier. “Yeah, not too long ago. It’s not something I talk about a lot, sorry, and not with strangers.” She gave me an odd look, then said, “Who exactly  _ are _ you? I’ve never seen you before. I heard you introduce yourself, and Pam called you a farmer?”

“Yeah, sort of. I’m not exactly a farmer yet, like I said. You know Invictus Farm?”

Something must have rung a bell, because Leah reached for her sketchbook, turning quite a few pages back.

“What?” I said, after a pause as she looked at something.

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Oh, nothing, it’s just. . .” She looked a bit guilty. “Well, I don’t think I’m really supposed to tell you, but it  _ is _ your place, right?”

I nodded. “My grandfather willed it to me. I’m finally coming out to start it back up.”

“Sometimes, some of us head out there to explore the place,” she said. “I mean, I know Lewis put up the sign but it’s not like we’re vandals or anything!” She had a pretty sheepish look and didn’t seem to want to meet my eye. “It’s a unique place, once tamed, now overgrown. . . A mix of unbridled nature and man’s structure. It sparks my creativity like few other places.” She reluctantly turned the sketchbook around. I could see the lake out behind the orchard, in brilliant detail. It was shaded and tinted with different colored pencils and absolutely captured the essence and peace of that lake. I could see a figure swimming to the little ‘island’ at the center, where Gramps and I used to row out to on that little dinghy and fish for hours. Judging by the purple hair. . .

“So Abigail’s the ‘vagrant’ that keeps trespassing on my sovereign property?” I said, smiling.

Leah shrugged. “She’s the free-spirited type. And like I said, we respect the place!” She was definitely defensive. “Well, at least  _ we  _ are. The boys sometimes party out there and they leave beer cans and cigarette butts.” When I frowned a little, she held up her hands. “But Abigail cleans up after them when she goes! She goes more than anyone else.”

“I don’t really mind if y’all explore the place, just. . . let me know if you decide to set out on another expedition while I’m there. I wouldn’t want to mistake you kids for coyotes.” I pointed a finger gun at her. “Bang.”

She chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“So, you usually draw or paint?”

“Sculpt, actually,” she said, looking a little embarrassed. “I know drawing and painting are more typical, but there’s just something about. . .  _ making _ something. You know?”

I sort of knew. “Clay?”

“Wood.” She frowned. “But good wood is expensive.”

“What kinds do you typically use?”

“Black walnut is generally my favorite, but whatever I can get my hands on, really. There’s a lot of maple and oak around here, so usually that. I buy from Robin, mostly, when I have the extra cash. I do odd jobs around the Valley.”

An idea popped into my head. “You ever chop down a tree for wood?”

A pained smile comes over Leah’s face. “I tried. Once.”

I nodded. “Well, how about this: If you’re between jobs, Robin and I are about to start on the interior of the farmhouse. If you don’t mind cleaning up, I’ll pay you for your time and you can take home whatever oak Robin doesn’t want. And, if you are ever tight on cash, there are  _ plenty _ of oak trees on my property that need clearing out. You can keep whatever you fell.”

She was caught off-guard by my offer, judging by the way her mouth parted slightly, her arms crossing as she leaned back in her chair. She looked out the window again, and toyed with the end of her French braid. Footsteps approached as Leah considered my offer.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Leah said, as Robin pulled out the chair between us. I might be a stranger, but I came in with Robin, and she seemed like a fixture of the town. And, hey, it was a pretty good deal. 

Robin looked at me with a bit of surprise. “You didn’t waste a second, did you, Peters?”

“I offered Leah some work cleaning out the old place.”

Realization dawned on Robin’s face. “Oh,” she said. Leah had a chuckle or two at her expense. 

Emily approached. “Howdy, Robin. How’s the kids?”

“Doing just fine, Em,” Robin said, smiling. “The usual.” Emily nodded and marked something on her scratch pad. She looked at me.

“Dealer’s choice. And I’ll take up Gus on that free drink.”

“What’ll you have, Mister Farmer?” she said, the light dancing in her eyes.

“Y’all got any Four Roses, Single Barrel?”

Emily blinked, still smiling, as if to ask,  _ “What?” _

“ _ Bourbon _ ? Henry, it’s  _ noon, _ ” Robin said, looking at me incredulously.

Leah just took a tiny sip of her wine. It appeared she was not one to judge.

“Noon  _ already _ ?” I said, cocking my head to the side. “Bring the whole bottle, Miss Emily.”

Robin shook her head. “Sweet Yoba, you’re just like Shane.”

“The cowboy?”

“The  _ drunk, _ ” she whispered, gesturing with her head to the JojaMart Sulker. If he could hear us, he didn’t show it. He had graduated from beer to whiskey while I had been talking with Leah. I merely shrugged.

“Consider it an early celebration. I usually don’t drink this early but it’s a special time,” I lied. “And hey, Gus said first drink’s on the house. Might as well take advantage of that.”

Robin stared at me for a moment. It’s the same look she gave Sebastian and me when we were lighting up our cigarettes on the porch. “Okay,” she said.

“Anything else, Mister Farmer?” Emily asked, her boundless energy apparently unabated by my functional alcoholism.

“Dealer’s choice on the meal, and that’ll be all, ma’am, thank you.”

“I’ll bring the bottle right out,” she said, smiling and turning on her heel to deliver the order to Gus.

~~

I placed my fork on the plate with a slight  _ clink! _ “That was a pretty mean porterhouse,” I said.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Robin agreed.

“Ready to head out?” Leah asked. 

“Yeah,” Robin answered. As Robin went for her billfold, I pulled out another hundred-gold bill from my wallet and tossed it on the table. Leah practically did a double-take at it.

“Grub’s on me,” I said.

“Peters,” Robin started to stay, but I cut her off with my hand.

“You’re cutting me a pretty good deal, Robin. Reciprocity, and all that.”

“If you’re sure,” she said. She had ordered a pretty expensive meal, but it was still a few G cheaper than my porterhouse.

Leah gave me an inquisitive look.  _ What about me? _

“I think you could just use a free meal. Besides, that rabbit food hardly costs a silver,” I said, gesturing to her now-empty salad plate.

“I take offense to that,” she said, clearly not taking very much offense to it.

I didn’t respond, just raised my hand and beckoned Emily. I tapped the bill on the table and she nodded from behind the bar, so we just got up and left it there for her. We were at the door when she got out from behind the bar and reached the table.

“Don’t you want change for this?” she asked, holding up the bill.

“No,” I said, exiting and closing the door behind me.

“So, uh, is now a good time to talk hourly rates?” Leah said, shouldering her canvas satchel, which she had put her sketchbook and copy of  _ Walden _ in. It was quite full of other sketchbooks and assorted art materials. It smelled like wood varnish and I noticed the stains on Leah’s fingers. I wondered, briefly, if she ever tried her hand at chainsaw sculpting.

“What do you usually get for odd jobs?” I asked, pulling open the passenger side door to Robin’s dodge and pulling open the rear half-door to get into the back seat, pulling it closed behind me.

“Depends on who hires me,” she said, climbing in after me into the passenger seat. “And for what. Usually minimum wage, though.”

“Robin? Thoughts?”

“Well, Mr. Warbucks, I’m sure you can afford higher than minimum wage, what with all that cash you keep throwing around.”

“I’ll think about it on the drive,” I said. “Oh, and Robin?”

“Hm?”

“Stop by the JojaMart, if we could.” I grabbed the Chilton’s manual off the console and checked the notes I had scribbled on the inside cover in pencil. “I have a few parts I need to order.”

“Why not try Pierre’s?” she said, her frown evident in her voice.

“Pierre doesn’t have what I’m looking for, trust me. And even if he did, he doesn’t have same-day delivery, especially not out here.”

“I’ve always wondered how same-day delivery works,” Leah chimed in. “Like, that must be hell on delivery drivers.”

“So what’s the rush, then, Peters?” Robin asked, turning around to look at me.

“The sooner I get that F-150 of Gramps’ fixed, the sooner I can start hauling some of my own materials up to the farm. As much trunk space as the Town Car has, I’m using most of it.”

Robin conceded the point, turning back and putting the Dodge into reverse. “Yeah, I noticed. What do you have in there? The car practically sags like a low-rider.”

“Clothes. Toiletries. Personal effects. Two hundred thousand dollars in cash.”

Robin and Leah laughed. “Yeah, sure, Walter White.”

~~

The automatic doors slid open, reminding me of how the gates of Hell must have parted for Virgil. A wave of cold, conditioned air hit me as I stepped across the threshold. I could see a few registers to my left, and a help desk to my right. A dead-eyed redhead manned the till, not meeting my eye, while a plump yet mousy man, clad in a pitch-black suit, looked at me through odd little spectacles.  _ The Devil, _ I thought,  _ wears a suit and tie. _

“Welcome, welcome!” he said, motioning me over. I didn’t move. When we made eye contact, his gaze became a little steelier. The gears must have clicked into place. “Well,  _ Mr. Peters _ .” He drew out my name, a sinister undertone to his voice. “I hope you’ve come to renew your contract.”


	3. The Hard Sell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin, Henry & Co. celebrate (mostly) finishing fixing up the Farmhouse. Leah learns to drive a standard. Pierre continues to receive no love from our curmudgeon of a protagonist. Morris makes his first (but hardly last) appearance. Henry gets some mail and begins preparing to finally plant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. I have places I want to go specifically with this work, but sometimes I have issues getting there. I'll continue to slowly build towards. . . something. As always, I hope you enjoy and welcome feedback, comments, and criticism.

**Chapter 3 - The Hard Sell**

 

The smell of charcoal and lighter fluid drifted in through the open window like a welcomed guest. I sat on the newly-varnished kitchen table, courtesy of my personal lord and savior, Robin. The chairs were too decrepit to fix up, so I had Robin order whatever she thought would match the table the best. They were supposed to come in tomorrow.

“You like ‘em medium?” Robin said, poking her head in through the doorway.

“Medium-rare, if you would,” I said, taking a nip out of my hip flask. Robin frowned.

“It’s noon,” she said.

“I’m celebrating.”

“Mm.” Robin nodded. “Sooner or later, Gus’ll cut you off.”

“I’ll have booze delivered from the city, then.”

Robin scoffed. “Sweet Yoba, you’re terrible.”

I gave her a nod, and she left to go tend the grill. Through the kitchen window, I could the sun glinting off the newly-waxed ‘81 F-150. The shiny new blackwalls that I had ordered through Jojamart were serviceable. I rubbed my hands, unconsciously. They were still bandaged from errors I had made working on the truck—errors Gramps would have berated me for making. _I didn’t bring you up to be so careless!_ He’d say, and he’d be right. But, looking at that sweet Palomino tan color, I could tell I had done a pretty decent job. Of course, half the work was already done for me; Gramps had indeed set his vehicles up for storage. I hadn’t touched the bike or the other car yet, and I’d imagine I’d have to wait a while to get them in working order. They had been out of commission far longer than the F-150.

“Hey, boss!”

I turned, Leah poking her head in as Robin had done. I raised an eyebrow.

“You mind if I take that old truck out for a spin? Sebastian wants me to make a beer run and I figured it’d be a nice change of pace from driving my crappy old Neon.”

_“No,”_ was instinctive response, but the look in her eyes made the words catch in my throat. She had that explorer’s glint in her eye.

“I’ve never driven a truck before. Back in the city I always took the bus or a bike. I just wonder what it’s like,” she added.

“You ride motorcycles?”

She looked confused for a moment. “ _Bicycles,_ ” she clarified, with a half-chuckle.

I bit the inside of my cheek, idly, looking at her. Her eyes seemed to plead with me. I leaned back on one hand and used the other to point at the keys on the counter. She gave me a bright smile that let me know I had made the right decision, swiped the keys, and launched out of the doorway like a sprinter off the block.

Even with the slight smoky smell filtering in through the windows, I could still smell the mustiness of the interior of the Farmhouse. Faded photographs pinned to the wall with shiny new pins, newly-washed China in the cabinet, boxes, empty and full, lining the walls, the mid-day sun illuminating it all with a bright glow.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out, looked at the screen, frowned, and denied the call, putting it back in my pocket and my hand back on the table. The ninth call. I tried to put it out of mind. Today was supposed to be a happy day. _Tried_ being the operative word.

By my hand, on the table, was a leatherbound journal, stuffed so full that it the latch threatened to give out anytime you moved the damned thing. “JP” was embroidered on the cover. Gramps told me that Gram did that for his birthday—she was very talented at all those ‘domestic’ skills you would have expected from the housewife of a farmer. My finger traced the faded pink fabric woven into the leather. _Gram._ I had only met her a handful of times before she passed, and only once that I can actually remember.

Some other lady in town asked my grandmother why she didn’t get back into business, why she let herself just “rot out here as a dishwasher for that man.” Gram gave her some kind words and changed the subject, but I think it was evident that she didn’t inform her that Gram could hoe a row of corn faster than any man in the Valley—Gramps included—and that she had run a mutual fund worth a few hundred thousand gold.

I must have zoned out, because I jumped yet again when Demetrius touched me on the shoulder.

“Sorry to startle you. Robin told me you were sort of. . . jumpy.” Demetrius was sort of an awkward man. He didn’t look like he got out much. He was mousy and bookish. He wasn’t pudgy, but he certainly wasn’t chiseled. It looked like Robin could knock him out with one right hook to the jaw. Then again, she could have probably done the same to me, so who am I to judge?

“It’s fine,” I said. “I was in my happy place,” I said, cracking a smile.

Demetrius took a moment, but he caught on and smiled too. “Leah’s having some troubles with the truck. You might want to help her out.”

_Oh,_ I thought. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before. I left out the kitchen door and onto the deck out back, where Robin had brought her grill and had set up a couple tables. Sebastian sat at one, listening to his phone. Her daughter, I assumed, was reading a textbook and occasionally marking on some kind of worksheet. She seemed busy so I hadn’t disturbed her while she was here.

Leah was sitting in the driver’s seat of the F-150. I walked over to the passenger side door and opened it, got inside.

She bit her lip and turned to face me. “What is that third pedal for?”

“That is the clutch.”

She pointed between us.

“That is the gearshift.”

“And which one is ‘Drive?’”

I looked her dead in the eye. She was not joking. “You cause me physical pain, Leah.”

She laughed a little. “I’m sorry, I just thought I could figure this out. This is a standard drive?”

“Standard _transmission_.”

She winced. “I never really was mechanically inclined.”

“Do you want to learn how to drive manual?” I don’t know why I asked, but I suppose some whimsy possessed me.

Leah looked at me for a moment, then leaned forward, crossing her arms on the wheel and looking down the dusty road to the gate. “Yeah, I guess so. I knew this one guy who had one back when I was in the city, and he wouldn’t shut up about how great it was. He just kept bragging, ‘oh, I’m so in _tune_ with the car,’ and all that. So let’s see what it’s all about.”

“Well, for starters, put on the brake and release the parking brake.”

“Parking brake? You mean, take it out of park?”

“You’ve _never_ used a parking brake?”

Her silence was deafening.

“See that, there?” I pointed to a latch by her left leg. “Parking brake.”

I heard the brake fluid shift as she pressed the brake in and then some mechanical thunking as she clumsily released the parking brake. “Parking brake _off_ ,” she declared, proudly.

“Now push the clutch in.” She did so. Sort of. “Push it in _all_ the way.” She did so, correctly. “Now move the gearshift side-to-side to make sure you’re in neutral.” She put her hand on the gearshift, waggled it as prescribed. “Good. We’re in neutral. That means the engine isn’t connected to the driveshaft.”

She gave me a blank look.

“It won’t go anywhere in neutral. There’s no power going to the wheels.”

She took that better.

“Pushing in the clutch also disconnects the engine and driveshaft. You’ll always push it in when you shift gears, up or down. Now, start it up.”

Leah turned the key and the truck’s engine came to life after a few heaving coughs. I’d have to give her a tune-up when Leah returns. “Now what?” she asked.

“Slide it into first.”

“Which one’s first?”

“See the knob of the gearshift? The pattern’s printed on it.”

Leah moved her hand, then nodded and pushed the gearshift up.

“Whoa. You’re in third. Pull it back down, move it over a little, then up.”

She winced again, then did so. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s kind of a learning curve.”

Leah put it into first.

“Alright. Now you’re going to want to give it just a nudge of gas, and then start letting the clutch out. Slowly. You’ll feel it start to resist a little as it engages. Keep it there until we get rolling, then let it out the rest of the way.”

Leah started to let out the clutch. However, she let it out far too fast. The F-150 lurched forward and then the engine stalled.

“Whoa!” Leah looked over at me, wide-eyed. “Did I just break your truck?”

“It just stalled. Push the clutch back in, put it in neutral, start her back up. Happens to all of us.”

A few minutes and stalls later, Leah got it to half-go before it started bucking. I could see Sebastian, Maru, and their parents staring at us as the F-150 shook forward, stopped, shook forward, stopped, all while the engine was giving a terrible heaving sound that was somewhere between the death rattle of a cow and a bodybuilder grunting in a deadlift.

“Clutch in, _clutch in!_ ” I shouted, as Leah shrieked something along the lines of, “What-do-I-do-what-do-I-do?”

Finally, she shoved the clutch in and I grabbed the gearshift, pulling it into neutral. Leah sighed. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“When you get it, you’ll have it forever. Like riding a bike. If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t a natural at it either. Now, let’s try again. Just remember to push it back in a little bit if you hear the engine start to get quieter. It’s called ‘feathering the clutch.’ Here, roll down the windows and cut the A/C. . .”

~~

“Woo-hoo!” Leah said, pumping her fist in the air. We were finally moving, ten minutes later. I had switched with her and moved the truck over to where the cul-de-sac met with the road leading outwards; there was a slight downward slope and it definitely made it easier for her to get rolling.

“Now we’re cooking with gas,” I said, wiping the sweat off my forehead.

“Can I shift into second?”

“When you hear the engine start to—like that, what it’s doing now, push the clutch in and pull it down into second.” She did so. Sort of.

“I just pushed in the gas and the engine revved, but we’re not going any faster,” she said, biting her lip in frustration.

“You’re still in neutral. Clutch in, all the way down until you feel it click into place.”

The truck shook a little bit as we made a rough shift into second.

“There we go!” she said, smiling. She looked over at me. “There we _go!”_

_“Watch the trees!”_ I said, as she looked back at the road and turned the wheel to avoid scraping up against the oaks.

“Sorry!”

~~

I ended up driving home from the Saloon, Leah holding the icy six-packs in her lap. There was a new cooler between Leah’s feet, from Jojamart. Pierre didn’t have one on hand.

“You know, that guy is still an uppity asshole, but he was kinda onto something,” Leah said. “You do feel more. . . I dunno, it feels _different_.”

“Like you’re more in control of the vehicle?”

“Yeah, exactly! More. . . _in tune_ ,” she said, adopting a nasally voice. I chuckled. “Anyway, let’s hurry back. Food’s probably ready!”

~~

There’s nothing like a decent whiskey with a home-cooked meal and a cigarette afterwards.

Standing on the deck, you could see the torn-up ground from where Robin, Leah, and I rooted out the stumps in preparation for tilling. You could still smell the fresh soil on the evening breeze. After our cookout, we had gotten back to some lazy work while Demetrius took the kids back into town. Leah and I had filled up the back of the Dodge and its trailer with scrap wood that Robin didn’t want, for delivery to Leah’s cabin. There were some surprisingly choice “scrap” in there, however, and I suspect Robin was doting on our dear artist. I was indulging in what Robin certainly considered my most sinful habit when—speak of the devil—the carpenter took a seat on the wooden railing beside me. She took a look at her watch.

“It’s starting in town, you know.”

“What’s starting?” There’s no way she could think I knew what she was talking about.

“Friday night,” she said, giving me a coy look.

I blinked. I wasn’t biting.

“Oh, you’re no fun,” she said, chuckling. “Every Friday night, the town flocks to the Stardrop Saloon for drinks and making merry. It’d be the perfect time for you to meet everyone that you haven’t yet. Well, almost everyone—there’s a few that don’t drop in regularly. You’ll fit right in, Petey.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got a lot to do. And don’t call me Petey.”

Robin looked surprised. It took a moment more than I expected for her to speak again. “You can put it off until tomorrow. There’s no rush. You don’t seem to be in dire straits—”

“Aren’t you the one who said I shouldn’t put things off?”

She frowned. “And here I thought we were making progress. You went and socialized with Leah alright when we went to lunch. Henry, you’ve been here a little over a week and you’ve barely spoken to anyone that you didn’t have to—”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” I admit, I could have had a gentler tone.

She looked a little hurt. “No, I guess not.” She hopped off the railing, fetched her keys out of her pocket. She started to walk inside, then stopped and half-turned to me, not meeting my eye. “We’re typically down there until pretty late, if you change your mind. I’ll take Leah back into town. . .”

“See you Monday, Robin. Bright and early.”

Robin left without another word.

After I heard the Dodge start up and pull away, I went inside, starting to close windows and doors. I turned on the air conditioning and was pleased to find it running smoothly; for once, the contractors we brought in to do the work actually did a good job. Grabbing Gramps’ journal off the kitchen table, I went to the study where a nice bottle of brandy was waiting for me. My head was already getting that fuzzy haze that caused the color to drain out of sight and I needed to drown it.

~~

I never vomited from being hung-over, no matter how much I drank. My girlfriend from college said I was inhuman. My head, however, was another story. I would get migraine-level headaches when I drank too much, but that never seemed to stop me, though it certainly should have.

I woke up on the floor of the study, clutching an empty bottle of brandy. Damn, I was hoping that would’ve lasted me the next week out. I’ll have to make another trip to Gus’. On top of running a pretty top-notch restaurant and bar, he also sold alcohol in bulk, doubling as the town’s liquor store. I would come to discover there was a lot of hybridization in this town, to make up for its limited population.

In my other hand was a photograph, half-crumpled. _Damn, damn, damn._ I smoothed it out as best as I could, and I could feel my eyes burning. It was of me, aged eight or so, with Gramps and Dad. We were all standing in front of the porch, my forebears on either side of me, a proud hand on each of my shoulders. All of us smiled—I was missing a tooth on my left side. It was the very image of what you would expect a happy kid to look like. Clutched in my hands, proudly displayed to the photographer, Gram in this case, was the reason for our smiles: A hearty-looking turnip.

It was my very first crop, though I was practically supervised by Gramps every step of the process. I had to make a special trip down to the Valley to harvest it, after planting it a few months prior.

I wasn’t able to completely smooth out the wrinkles.

~~

There was a mailbox by the gate. I doubted there would be any mail yet—I had only just started sending notifications to the people and organizations that would need to know of my change of address—but I figured the walk would clear my head. The sunlight burned my eyes as if I was stabbing myself with a fire iron. The birdsong on the wind caused my head to pound like a war-drum: steady and fast. But the cool, crisp air invigorated me somewhat as I made it to the gate. To my surprise, the little flag was raised. I stepped over the broken gate—I had yet to see Clint about forging a replacement—and retrieved my mail. Squinting as I was, I only glanced at the one on top. It was addressed by hand, and from in town. Oddly, it bore no stamps.

Once I was safely within the air-conditioned confines of my study, I drew the curtains closed and sat at the desk. I had three envelopes. Opening the one from in town, I found that it was from Lewis. He said that Pierre should have the seeds I had ordered in by Monday, and that he doubled as the Postal Service in these parts, so unless I was mailing outside of town, I didn’t need to bother with stamps as Lewis would pick it up and deliver it himself. He also said that the townsfolk regretted I was unable to make it to the Friday night gathering and that they wanted to extend a formal invitation to the next one. He went on to address a few other business concerns about licensing and taxes, I largely skipped over them and decided to read them later. Setting his letter aside, the next was printed by a computer and very clearly a bill of some sort. The third was also printed, from Jojacorp. The fourth—

I froze as I read my address on the center of the envelope. My address wasn’t what gave me pause, of course, that was to be expected, it was the script in which it was written that froze me. Cursive, and with a clear flow from one letter to the next. The lettering here was far, _far_ more deliberate than I usually saw from her but there was no mistaking it, this was her handwriting. In the corner was our old address. The envelope was a soft pink and the ink she wrote with was a light blue. I traced my fingers over the letters, feeling the depressions in the material; she must have spent five minutes alone penning the address. I brought my hand to my mouth, rubbing my mouth in thought. As I did, I caught the scent of her perfume from my fingers. I closed my eyes. Why was she doing this to me?

I tossed the Joja letter and hers into the trash bin before I could second-guess myself.

~~

You could make the argument that my trip into town was to put as much physical distance between myself and the letter as possible. You could make the argument that it was, in a very literal sense, running away. You should shut up.

The bell rang as I entered Pierre’s.

“Mr. Peters! Back so soon?” he said, smiling jovially as I entered. I gave him a wave. “Your seeds won’t be in tomorrow. Lewis was supposed to write,” he said, cocking his head to the side.

“He did, I saw,” I said, squinting. “Painkillers.”

“Fun night, huh?” he said, dropping his voice, reaching behind him to the rack of medicine he sold. “You should see Harvey if you need anything stronger than ibuprofen. You should go see him anyway, you know.”

“I know. So I’ve been repeatedly told,” I said, putting my wallet on the counter. Pierre picked it up and retrieved the appropriate amount—I may have considered him greedy, but not untrustworthy—ringing up the pills.

“Would you like a water bottle as well?” he asked.

“I can dry-swallow.”

Pierre smiled and nodded, and handed me the pills and my wallet. “I heard you stopped by Jojamart earlier.

“There have been a few things I’ve needed that you didn’t stock.”

“I also heard you had a talk with Morris.” Pierre was giving me an appraising look. “What did he want with you?”

“What does he ever want with anybody? To sell me something.”

Pierre moved his head slightly, as if to say, “Ah?”

The bell rang as I left.

Morris. That damned bastard, with his cheap suit and his greased hair.

~~

“I hope you’ve come to renew your contract,” he had said.

“I need a set of tires for a 1981 Ford F-150.”

Morris didn’t break eye contact to look at his monitor or begin looking anything up. “The headquarters in Haverlance sent me a notice that said you’d be moving into town. They were quite insistent that I speak to you sooner or later. Thankfully, you’ve come to me.”

“The truck doesn’t have a lift kit, and I won’t need off-road tires. The standard for that model year will do.”

“They want you back, Mr. Peters.” Morris smiled like he wasn’t human, but merely some kind of facsimile doing its best to replicate the expression. It was a very familiar sight for me. “They are even willing to overlook your dubious possession of the company car.”

“Legally, I retain the right to utilize it.”

“Legally, but only barely. A tiny loophole that could be worked around, if you gave a lawyer enough time and motivation.” He shifted gears. “You were such a valued employee,” he pleaded. “HQ would gladly double your pay, increase your benefits. Forget the company car, we could see about getting you a company _yacht_.”

“I get seasick easily; pass. Now, about those tires. . .”

“That land you own is very valuable, Mr. Peters. Jojacorp has been looking into acquiring it for some time. How long do you think you could hold out against a team of corporate lawyers?”

“1981. Ford. F-150. Tires. Four.”

Morris didn’t stop smiling. “Will that be standard shipping?”

“Same-day delivery.”

“That will more than triple the shipping cost, out here.”

“I’m aware.”

I slapped the money on the table. I wouldn’t give it to him directly and risk his clammy hands getting sweat all over mine.

Morris looked at the money, then at me. “I heard how you liquidated your employee account before you took off with the company car. Do you plan to live off the fruits of your labor at Jojacorp for the rest of your life, Mr. Peters? Even out here, you’re living on company dime.”

I slid the money towards him.

“It will arrive by nightfall, Mr. Peters, rest assured,” he said, opening the register and putting the money inside. He began typing on the computer, selecting the model and quantity, delivery type and location, I imagined. “I, of course, already have your address.”

~~

When I got home, my headache had only slightly abated. I stumbled through the entryway and into the house proper, rubbing my temples, as if that would help. Shuffling into the study, I ran my fingers along the dusty spines of Gramps’ books. The bookshelves sagged in their dados, threatening but never seriously considering giving out. There was a section dedicated to informational books on agriculture. I know from past conversations with the man that Gramps had annotated them extensively

I spent most of the day reading through the manuals. I was a rather fast reader—another trait inherited from my illustrious grandfather that happened to skip a generation. In fact, I had only stopped a few times to use the restroom and to cook myself lunch and dinner. To that end, I simply bought a few basic ingredients in bulk and threw them in a pan. It wasn’t that I lacked the skill to do something more impressive then throw raw beef, onions, mushrooms, salt and pepper in a pan and saute the shit out of it, but I was severely lacking in motivation or time. The manuals were not sentient and could not, to my immense dismay, read themselves.  I restricted myself to light beer, but I barely even felt a buzz even after finishing off an entire pack by nightfall.

I was turning in for the night, just about to stand up from the desk, when a sliver of pink caught my eye in the lamplight. The letter.

I stared at it for longer than I cared to admit. The letter was a gorgon, petrifying me with its unrelenting gaze.

Cursing myself, I reached into the trash can, nearly cutting my hand on the crushed cans of some pissy frat-bro swill, and grabbed the envelope. There was a small spot or two where excess frat-bro swill had dripped onto it from the cans, but it wasn’t soaked or anything. I immediately opened one of the drawers and stuffed the letter inside, slamming the drawer shut. I retrieved my keyring and locked the drawer.

I scoffed at myself. Who, exactly, was going to be rooting through my desk? I was sure that drawer’s lock hadn’t been utilized since it was bought. I’m not even sure Gramps locked up the house at night, or even his truck when he went out, back in the day. I could do the same, if I wanted. I wouldn’t. The Valley was that kind of place. I wasn’t that kind of person.

But I’d like to be.


	4. Imaginary Appalachia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing to establish himself as a farmer, Henry stops by Doc Harvey's for a check-up and encounters a kindred spirit, stops by the river to brood and meets the local bookworm, and survives a grocery run gone awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for my attempt at subtle flirtation.

**Chapter 4 - Imaginary Appalachia**

 

Tiny sprouts peeked out from tilled soil like children playing hide-and-seek. One row coming along, another two just beginning to make their debut, three more yet to rise and four still freshly planted. My stamina was definitely improving. Taking a hoe to stony soil over and over takes more out of a man than I had thought possible. 

Sweat drew dusty trails down my forearms as I worked with a spade in front of the porch. I scoffed as I worked, my fingers burning even underneath my gardening gloves.

_ Gardening gloves! _

I was wearing gardening gloves! Me! Henry Peters!

Flowers, Gramps annotations had informed me, could fetch a decent price and were much faster (“and more fragrant!” added Gram’s flowing script) to produce and replant. Hence, I was planting an assortment of spring flowers to cultivate during the admittedly waning days of spring.

Thinking about it, I’d barely have time to grow a few cheap crops to sell at the end of spring. I’d likely not have very much profit to pour back into the farm come the dog days of Summer. 

Of course, there was always the duffel bag in my closet. . .

_ Even out here, you’re living on company dime. _

I scowled, attacking the dirt with new ferocity.

~~

“It is about time you visited,” Maru said, eying me as I let the clinic door swing shut behind me. She had tried to talk me into setting up an appointment with Doctor Harvey when she met me at the cookout. She was wearing a surprisingly cute nurse’s outfit—the kind I hadn’t thought were in use anymore. Aren’t those white caps supposed to be a brilliant way to transfer bacteria?

She shifted the office chair she was sitting on— _ ’Can I help you? _ ’. That’s right, Peters, you’re staring. Wordlessly, I held up my blistered and bloodied hands.

“Sweet Yoba,” she said, cringing. “Doc’s got someone in the back. Have a seat and wait. He should be all finished up in a minute.” As I walked over and took a seat in the waiting area, she starting typing on her computer, likely noting my visit in some kind of log. “Normally you’d have to fill out forms and releases  _ before _ Harvey can do anything, but since we’re such a small operation, I think we can wait until he’s done with you. I’ll have all the necessary paperwork waiting for you. In the meantime, there are magazines. . .” she said, her voice trailing off as she came to a realization. She looked over, a bit of pity dancing in her eyes as she saw me sitting on the fold-out chair, holding my poor, mangled hands open and off my clothes, so as to not get any more blood on them. She cringed and refocused on her paperwork. If I didn’t have such a sour disposition, I might have laughed.

I stared at my work boots—ordered through Pierre’s this time—for the duration of my wait, which was, true to Maru’s word, not very long. I heard the man coming down the hallway before I saw him, and I could see Maru shaking her head as a man I took to be Doctor Harvey wheeled an elderly man out into the waiting area.

“. . .and for the last time, I don’t need more pills! My other doctor never ordered so many pills!” His voice was rough—like he gargled a mixture of motor oil and gravel as part of his morning routine. His accent was definitely southern and definitely blue-collar—he was certainly a curmudgeonly old bastard. His skin was leathery and tough, wrinkled from many, many years, and he had a permanent Eastwood squint. His wiry grey hair clung close to his scalp wherever it still survived.

He and I made eye contact and instantly, I knew I had erred in allowing this to happen.

“And what’s  _ your _ deal, huh?” He looked at my hands. “You try to finger a woodchipper?”

Maru snorted, burying her nose further in some files she was rummaging through when Harvey shot her a look.

“I’m sorry about that, sir. He can be irritable during check-ups—”

“I don’t need you to speak for me, four-eyes!” he bellowed, as Harvey continued to wheel him towards the front door.

“It’s fine,” I said, standing. I walked over, standing by the door. “Just make sure to check his diaper before you put him down for a nap. They get snippy when they’re packing.”

Harvey half-turned, absolutely mortified at my response, while Maru bit her cheek and continued to pretend to look for a file. The old man grunted, then wheezed, then coughed—this, I would learn, was how he laughed.

“At least  _ someone _ around here has some balls.” The old man wrenched control of the wheelchair from Harvey with surprisingly strong arms, turning and wheeling over to me. He held out a scarred hand that was knotty and uneven—it had clearly been broken and re-broken many, many times. “Name’s George. That’s Mr. Mullner to you, though!”

I took his hand. He did his best to crush mine. The attempt was admirable, especially considering my grievous wounds. “Henry Peters.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Peters,” George said, turning and wheeling back to Harvey. “Alright, Doc, I’m ready to go home. Make sure to take care of this moron. This town could use more like him.”

The look on Harvey’s face said he disagreed. Still, Harvey wheeled him out and the door pulled shut behind him by that metal arm, the mechanism of which I had seen many times but never understood.

“This way, Mr. Moron,” Maru said, standing and grabbing a thick folder. “We’ll go into the examination room and I can walk you through some of these forms while Harvey takes George home. . .”

~~

Whatever impression the good doctor had had of me due to my run-in with Stardew Valley’s resident candidate for the title of “Hell on Wheels,” Maru must have dispelled during her short talk with him before he saw me himself.

“Do you take any medication?” Harvey said, looking at his clipboard.

“Nurse already asked me that.”

“I’m asking you now,” Harvey said, looking up at me. “Your health is a very serious matter, Mr. Peters.” Maru must have informed him of how I prefer to be addressed, because I didn’t have to correct him.

I recounted to him what I told Maru.

“Are you sure you should be doing so much physical work?” he asked, after a few follow-ups.

“Old Doc said to exercise often.”

Harvey examined me with his eyes for a moment. His demeanor changed, like night and day. “And how is that farm work coming?” he said, all smiles.

“Good. Finally planting.”

“Good. Good.” Perhaps he expected me to say more. A moment later, “Remove your shirt, please. . .”

~~

The worst part of any clinical visit is the forms. That and the grief the doctor always gives me about my drinking habits. They’re damned booze hounds, they  _ always _ know when I’m fibbing about how much I drink, I swear to Yoba.

Maru was very helpful, so at least there was that going for me. We breezed through every form imaginable in only half an hour. I had blocked out another hour-and-a-half for form-filling so I was very content to leave the clinic early.

Stepping out onto the street, I glanced at the Stardrop Saloon, past my truck.

Gramps’ truck? My truck? I suppose it’s a moot point now.

I could see shapes moving inside. Pierre would probably still be on his lunch break, so I would have to put off the next item on my list for another half-hour or so. It’d would have been a waste of gas to drive back to the farm, and I had eaten before I saw Harvey, so. . . what was a man to do?

I looked around. There were still very few shops open here. Pierre’s and Jojamart were pretty much the extent of your buying options. There were a few irregular stands from farmers around the Valley or other products from cottage industries here and there, but nothing very permanent. I suppose I could try my luck at the Stardrop Arcade—which was really just a side room in the Saloon.

The river it is, then.

Making sure that the F-150 was locked, I moseyed on down to the river, pleasantly lost in thought, breathing in the crisp air coming down from the mountains. No smog, no smoke, except for what came out of the Saloon’s chimney and out of Clint’s smithy. I remembered fishing on the riverbed with my father when we’d visit. It was one of the few things I didn’t do with Gramps when I was here. He preferred to fish up in the mountains or down by the sea. The river, he said, wasn’t very good for fishing.

Maybe that’s why my father preferred it. Fishing, for him, was less about catching fish and more about the experience of fishing. Line in the water, ass in a fold-able nylon chair, cool drink in the netting on the armrest. Why let that tranquility be shattered by a fish on the line?

My grandfather would join us there, sometimes. He saw the merits in both kinds of fishing. I wish I could say the same.

I leaned against a cherry tree, one of many along the banks of the river. I imagined that they were planted by the town to pretty up the place, and you could see the snow-white petals blowing off the tree and drifting lazily down the river. The trees have been here long before me, and I’m certain they’ll be here long after I’m dead. I knews about the cemetery in town, but I wondered what it would take to get a plot under one of these cherry trees. . .

“‘And I behold once more, my old familiar haunts; here the blue river. . .” I said, watching, mesmerized, as the petals disappeared in the eddies. I wondered where they’d reappear, if at all—

“‘The same blue wonder that my infant eye admired.’”

There was a girl standing beside me now. I had been too focused on the petals adrift to notice her approach. She wore a long brown skirt, which had loose grass and twigs in its hem and seat, and a short-sleeved sunny-yellow button-up tucked at the waist. The fabric was faded; the shirt was old, and upon second glance, so was the skirt. Hand-me-downs.

However, her short reddish hair was drawn back to reveal a tiny but radiant little emerald stud in her ear, perfectly complementing the sparkle in her green eyes as she looked at me. Her hair, curled as it was, hid her other ear, and I suspected she might not have a matching earring. 

“‘Sage doubting whence the traveller came,’” I finished.

The girl clutched a book to her chest. It was a weathered hardback, the joints between the front and back covers and the spine painstakingly repaired with tape. There were dozens of fingernail-sized Post-Its poking out from the pages. I tilted my head to read the spine— _ Leaves of Grass. _

“Emerson  _ and _ Whitman? You like American poetry, I’m guessing.”

The girl nodded, a sheepish little smile playing across her lips. She was older than I first thought, looking at her. She extended a dainty hand, which I gladly took. Her hand was warm, though her grip was unsure and a little clammy. She had been out in the sun for a while, and it was heating up.

“I’m Penny.”

“Henry.”

“The new farmer?”

“The very same,” I said. She pulled her hand back, and tapped on her book. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you. I had heard someone new came to town and I was wondering when we’d come across each other. Kind of impossible not to, you know, small town like this. . .”

So, she’s a rambler.

“Sorry, am I disrupting you? I just came over to introduce myself but stopped because you looked like you were thinking but then you quoted ‘The River’ and I just kinda said the next part, ‘cause I was just re-reading it the other day.”

It’s damn-near impossible to get a word in edgewise with her, isn’t it?

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just waiting until Pierre got off his lunch break, killing time. I just came from Harvey’s,” I said, returning her smile.

“Harvey’s? Are you injured?” She looked me over, saw the bandages on my hands. “Oh, goodness, that looks serious.” You’d think she’d have noticed when she shook my hand.

“It’s not that bad, just blisters from work. It’s been a long time since I’ve used my hands this much, so they’re unused to the strain.”

“Oh. Oh, that makes sense,” she said nodding. “So, what’s the farm like? I’ve only been out that way once or twice. I bet it looks a lot nicer now!”

“You too?” I said, raising an eyebrow. Penny looked like she realized she wasn’t supposed to admit that she, too, had trespassed onto private, Peters property. I was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in the town that  _ hadn’t _ made the pilgrimage out to Invictus at one point or another. Before she could start a rambling explanation and apology, I held up a hand. “It’s fine. No harm, no foul, right? And yeah, Robin really did a number on it. You can hardly tell it ever was derelict.”

“Have you started planting yet? Although, isn’t it kind of late for planting? Are you just going to wait until summer?”

“No, I’ve planted some parsnips. I’ve also planted some flowers.”

“What kind of flowers?” she said, the gleam in her eye gleaming just a smidgen more.

To be honest, I had almost forgotten myself. I had been hammered when I picked up the seeds. I had been hammered when I planted most of them, too. Today, however, “I planted some tulips. Really just a little bit of everything, though.”

“Do you think you’ll plant poppies in the summer?”

My expression informed her that it was an oddly specific inquiry.

“Sorry, it’s just, I really like the colors they can blossom in. That, and poppyseed muffins. . .” she said, smiling a little bit.

“So, you’re an opium fiend?”

Penny’s eyes grew wide. For a moment, she must have thought I was deadly serious. My sarcasm could be hard to sort through, admittedly, and—

A sharp pain sprang into the side of my head. I stumbled and hit the other side of my head on the cherry tree, fairly hard. For a moment, I thought Penny had slapped me, but, no, the soccer ball bouncing down towards the river dispelled that theory. I touched my temple, then the other side of my head. My fingers came away bloody; I must have hit some bark the wrong way. I looked up and saw Penny standing, still a little in shock, covering her mouth with both hands, her copy of  _ Leaves of Grass _ currently dropped into its namesake. 

“Sweet Yoba, are you alright?” she said, completely ignoring the soccer ball that had just bounced straight into the drink. “I am  _ so, so _ sorry about that!”

Now, I realized that I had just taken two blows to the head, so some dots may not have been connecting, but I failed to see a correlation between my conversation with this bookish girl and my war on two fronts, fought with a soccer ball and a cherry tree. Stunned as I was, I only managed a meager, “Huh?”

“Aw, crap!” squealed a voice from the side. “Crap-crap-crap!”

A little tuft of ruddy hair bounced by the river. Really, it was two, but I could deduce that I was just momentarily seeing double. A little boy with a striped shirt was running alongside the waterborne ball and becoming more agitated by the second.

“Vincent! Come apologize!” Penny called, with a maternal tone. Oh, no way. She’s too young to be having kids. . .

Another child appeared, as if out of thin air. A short little girl in a lavender sundress, offering me a Band-Aid out of a frankly pathetic little plastic first-aid kit that was only equipped to deal with playground injuries. Still, her effort chipped at that block of dry ice that is my heart, so I accepted the Band-Aid.

“I’m very sorry, mister,” she squeaked. As she did so, Penny called to Vincent again, but he was absolutely  _ transfixed _ on the ball.

“Vincent Kent Pierce! You come here this instant or so help me!” Penny shouted. 

Vincent, I suppose, stopped only long enough to say, “Dad gave it to me!” before sprinting off again. 

That must have held some significance, because Penny’s demeanor changed, and I heard her utter a quiet, “Oh, dear.”

“Does he need that ball back?” I said, rubbing my head. It must have been a very minor scrape to the scalp, because I didn’t feel very much wetness on my head. 

“It was a gift from his father. He’s overseas at the moment. . .” she said, and I understood.

I took off my jacket and handed it off to the girl. She took it, confused, but too guilty at my supposed injury to protest. I started unbuttoning my button-down with one hand, reaching down to unlace my boots with the other.

“I’ll go see if I can get Sam to fish it out,” Penny said, starting to turn. She stopped when she saw me. “W- _ You’re  _ going to go get it?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“You don’t have to do that. Really, I can call Sam—Vincent’s brother, my friend—he’ll come right away. . .”

“That’s fine, but it’ll be gone by then,” I said, handing my shirt to the girl and pulling my work boots off. My socks followed, and I set them aside. Huh, it had been a while since I had felt grass between my toes.  _ Hope I don’t get ringworm. _

“Henry, really,” he said, but I was already jogging towards the river in a slightly hung-over stupor. I passed Vincent and finally pulled off my jeans, diving into the river.

The cold water shocked me as I was submerged up to my neck. I instinctively drew in a large breath, shivering at the abrupt chill. I took a few powerful strokes towards the ball, which was bobbing ahead of me. In the distance, I could see the mouth of the river and the gulf beyond. If she had gone for Sam or whoever, the ball might have been lost forever. My arms screeched their protest as I secured the ball in my arms, paddling back to shore. Vincent cheered me on, even when the ball almost slipped out of my arms.

“Yeah, dude! You’re the best!” he said, snatching it out of my hands. He began wiping it off with his shirt, with no regard for what the river-water might do to the fabric. He didn’t even mention the bloody spot on my head. I doubt he even noticed.

Penny reached us and in a moment she had Vincent by the ear.

“I understand that your dad’s soccer ball is important to you,” she said, her voice caring but very firm, “but you hit Mr. Henry. What do you say?”

“It was an accident!” he protested, trying to wrench her hand off of his ear, but he was just hurting himself more.

“It’s fine, really,” I said, as the little girl approached, apparently having collected my jeans. I grabbed them and used them as a makeshift towel. I was already starting to shiver in the breeze, even despite the late spring heat.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Henry!” Vincent said. Penny released him. Judging by the way he rubbed his neck and clutched the ball to his chest, it didn’t look like he got this kind of reprimand very often. Penny was still scowling at Vincent when she looked over to me for a minute, then double-took, and a little bit of red crept up her neck.

I still got it.

Still, I put my jeans back on. I’d need to get changed, pronto, but it’ll do for now. The girl had my shirt ready for me when I buttoned my jeans. “Thank you, miss. . .?”

“Jas,” she said, her voice mousy and barely audible.

“Miss Jas.” I began buttoning my shirt, which must have been the signal that it was okay for Penny to look again.

“Thank you for fishing out Vincent’s ball, Henry.”

“No problem.” I took my jacket from Jas and put it on, quickly. I wiped my hair back out of my eyes. Penny was still watching me. Absently, she put her hands on the back of the two children. There was absolutely no family resemblance between the three of them.

“Are you their nanny?” I asked. I had to ask. It was bugging me.

Vincent piped up. He seemed to recover quickly. “Miss Penny is our tutor!”

“Tutor,” I said, nodding. Penny smiled and nodded to confirm.

“It can be hard to get a good education without big city tax dollars,” she said. “I do what I can to bolster their education.”

“We’re on a field trip!” Vincent proudly announced.

I gave him a humoring, ‘oh, isn’t that special?’ look and then looked back at Penny.

“We were going to go over the ecosystem surrounding a river. The big fish and little fish, and such, you know?”

That is precious.

“That’s precious,” I said.

Penny laughed, a little nervous, and patted the kids on the back. “Get back to playing. And be careful where you kick,  _ young man _ .”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vincent said, ornery. The kids scurried off to do. . . whatever.

“Like I said, I’m really sorry, Henry.”

“Like  _ I _ said, it’s fine. Kids are kids.”

She smiled, relieved. She looked back, and I followed her gaze to a classic, if worn, checkered picnic mat. There was a basket with sack lunches, mostly-eaten.

“Have you had lunch yet, Henry?”

“No,” I lied.

“Oh. Well, I packed a little extra, in case the kids wanted a snack. You’re welcome to help yourself to it. I just feel really bad about that cut. Gosh, you leave Harvey’s and you might have to go right back in!” she said, fake-laughing. I fake-laughed as well.

“Sure. Might as well,” I said.

~~

I ate a half of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and drank lemonade out of a pink, flower-print tumbler while Penny read  _ Leaves of Grass _ , which she had retrieved from the spot by the cherry tree along with my work boots and socks. She didn’t speak much to me after we sat down, which disappointed me—why?—and when I left she only gave me a sheepish wave. Maybe she still felt guilty about the soccer-ball incident.

When I entered Pierre’s, most of the town seemed to be doing their weekly grocery shopping. I could see Caroline talking with Robin and a woman that definitely seemed like a housewife—she also had the same ruddy hair color that Vincent did, so I connected the dots. I recognized Pam from the bar, picking out snacks that I also recognized to pair well with a night in with liquor. There was also a rugged, heavy-set woman ordering feed at the register. Demetrius was messing around in Pierre’s produce section, and Abigail sat at the end of the counter, playing a GameBoy. Leah stood by Pierre’s two refrigerator units, a basket hung on one arm and a finger to her chin, evidently in thought. 

Approaching the register, I left a slip of paper with Pierre, taking a basket from a stack and starting to look for cleaning supplies. The paper had a list of seeds I needed Pierre to pull and prepare for check-out, but I still had some items I needed to pick up.

I was weighing the price difference between genuine Pine-Sol and generic cleaners when silence fell over the store. It was like something out of a western. A deadly stare between the two combatants and the hushed townsfolk watching, transfixed. Only, the showdown was between two nerdy, four-eyed white men that peddle groceries, and the silence was only silent insofar as no-one was talking or shuffling about—the inoffensive muzak was still on in the background.

Morris and his cheap suit had blown in and I could see he was definitely armed—with a fistful of  _ coupons. _

Pierre was laser-focused on those funky glasses of Morris’, Caroline looked reticent, and Abigail looked up from her screen long enough to start scowling. She reminded me of an enthusiastic but rather imperceptive guard dog. She hopped off the counter, marching towards him and sticking a finger in his face.

“You’d best turn your greasy ass around and walk right back out, or I’ll—” she said, but Morris cut her off with that particular grating tone salesmen had crafted over centuries of hawking and swindling.

“Miss Jones, I have as much right to be here as anyone,” he said, speaking loud and clear to Pierre’s patrons. I could tell the townspeople were tense—it must not have been the first time Morris had a confrontation with Pierre. “Just like these savvy shoppers have a right to these smart savings!” he said, proudly touting the coupons in his hand, reaching into his coat with his free hand and producing more. “Why pay Pierre’s premium prices when you can get the premium quality at bulk prices at JojaMart?”

Morris must have had a thing for alliteration. Or perhaps—yes, Abigail was wiping her face with great consternation. Classy, Morris.

“You can’t advertise in our store!” Pierre and Abigail shouted, almost in perfect unison.

“I’m allowed to advertise in public places, aren’t I?” Morris said, to which I half-suppressed a chuckle. I waited for Pierre to give the obvious rebuttal, but he didn’t. Neither did Abigail.

“ _ Fifty percent off _ all purchases over ten gold pieces!” Morris said, waving the coupons like a lion with his jaws closing around the neck of a poor wildebeest. “There’s no shortage of deals here, folks, come an’ get ‘em! Any takers?”

I remained where I was, but I wasn’t a small-town citizen with a small-town wage—or, at least, my bank account didn’t reflect that. Slowly, guiltily, the first townsperson approached Morris, holding out her hand. It was Leah. She grimaced as a few coupons went from Morris’ hand to hers. She avoided eye contact with Abigail as she passed her, leaving her basket by the door. Pam was next, followed by the heavy-set woman, who got a special coupon for discount bulk ordering of feed. Pam at least  _ seemed  _ relatively indifferent to her. . . brand disloyalty? But the other woman walked towards the door like a convict toward the gallows. Demetrius and Robin were coaxed out with promises of free same-day delivery on botanical samples and woodworking supplies. The housewife took the half-off coupons and left. 

With the exception of Leah, the townspeople apologized as they left, all while Abigail looked on in a mixture of wild disbelief and total shock. Some were sheepish, like the housewife and Robin, others blaze, like Pam, but all had their reasons. A glance at Pierre told me he was somewhere between fury and despair, with a dash of impotence. Caroline had moved to Pierre’s side, placing her hand on his arm placidly. She really wasn’t one for confrontation.

Morris looked at me, so I simply went back to comparing Pine-Sol and the generic counterpart. Not my pig, not my farm.

“Sell,” Morris said, stepping backwards towards the door. He pointed at Pierre. “Sell this  _ shit _ bucket and get with the times. You know where to find me to negotiate.”

“I can’t match those prices,” Pierre said through clenched teeth.

“If you can’t price competitively, you have no place in the market.”

“You’re going to run us into the ground!” Abigail shouted.

“That’s the idea, girl.”

“Do  _ not _ call me girl!” she said. I could see tears forming in her eyes.

“First Amendment,” Morris said, and that was it. Abigail’s mouth dropped open, and she froze for a moment, unable to believe his audacity. Suddenly, her body shifted, and her arm started to draw back. 

_ Oh, for fuck’s sake. _

“ _ Dissemination of information _ —” I spoke loudly and Abigail paused, restraining herself, “—that facilitates the purchase or exchange of goods or services constitutes commercial solicitation which is only legal in this state with an appropriate and valid solicitor’s license.”

Abigail, thankfully, restrained herself as Morris turned his head to look at me, slowly, deliberately.

“Do you have a solicitor’s license?” I asked.

“Yes.” His face was inscrutable.

“Can I see it?”

Still inscrutable, now silent.

“Solicitors are also required to produce identification and proof of licensing upon request.” I paused, placing the Pine-Sol and the Diet Pine-Sol on the shelf from whence they came. “That’s so that, you know, people just don’t  _ claim _ to be licensed when they really aren’t.” I rotated the bottle so that the label faced outwards. I didn’t make eye contact.

“Mr. Peters—”

“Do you want me to report you to my buddies in the FTC that you’re in violation of Title Fifteen of the US Code, Chapter One, Section Thirteen? Claims of predatory pricing can make their way up to the  _ Supreme Court _ , Morris. Taxpayers don’t like monopolization.” I turned to face him, finally. I gave him a cold, prosecutive gaze and I could tell he could tell that I wasn’t fucking around like before. “Is  _ Pierre’s General Store _ really worth a trip to Washington for JojaCorp?”

“JojaCorp has a very competent team of corporate lawyers—”

“Oh, believe me,  _ I know _ .”

“— _ very _ competent team of corporate lawyers who would gladly point out to the Supreme Court that competitive pricing forcing unprepared firms out of the market is entirely natural; and do you know how hard it is to prove intent in court?”

“It’s easier when you announce ‘sell this shitbucket and get with the times’ in public.”

“Announced to the store-owner, his family, and a disgruntled, former Joja employee. Witnesses with an agenda.”

“And you’re absolutely certain that there’s no way a committee from the Federal Trade Commission would find malice in the elimination of price for several premium, high-cost services such as same-day shipping to local manufacturers in order to, say, undercut a local competitor? Alternatively, you’re certain that they would find some benefit to JojaMart in volunteering free services  _ besides _ gaining a larger market share?  _ And  _ you’re certain they wouldn’t find similar cases playing out all across rural America right this very minute as well?”

Morris opened his mouth to speak again.

“ _ Are.  _ You. Certain?” I said, reaching into my jacket and retreiving my phone, brandishing it as it was the nuclear football. 

Morris pursed his lips and stared me down. As far as he was concerned, my phone  _ was _ the nuclear football.

“If the Sherman Act can bring down Standard Oil, it can bring down JojaCorp. And trust me, Morris, you’re not Rockefeller and you have no Samuel Dodd.”

Wordlessly, he turned, and the bell rung, announcing his exit.

To be honest, I was hoping he’d shake his fist at me and declare “This isn’t over!”

Abigail pumped her fist in the air and whooped. Caroline smiled and Pierre looked at me with a glimmer of gratitude in his eye.

“You had all those laws memorized?” Abigail asked, grinning and wiping away those angry tears.

“It’s called law school, it sort of gets covered there.”

Pierre reached out his hand as I approached the check-out desk. “Mr. Peters, thank you so much for standing up for small—”

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, just get me my seeds.”

And like a needle to a balloon, my words annihilated their celebration.

“Morris is right. You can’t compete with his prices and the townspeople aren’t exactly making six figures with benefits and bonuses falling out of their boss’s ass. They’re working-class people on working-class budgets with loans to pay off and kids to feed. They can’t pay six fucking pieces for your cigarettes when you can get ‘em for three fucking pieces a stone’s throw down the fuckin’ street. And no FTC committee in their right goddamn minds would tangle with JojaCorp over  _ Pierre’s General Store _ ! Why offer the Freemans free shipping on their work-related orders? To encourage repeat business and cultivate goodwill with customers! No court this side of the Midwest would consider that offer ‘beyond reasonable doubt!’ He  _ is _ Rockefeller and Standard Oil wasn’t guilty of predatory pricing; they managed to undercut their opponents because they lowered their costs and priced accordingly. Morally ambiguous, sure as shit, but not demonstrably illegal beyond reasonable doubt. The Sherman Act broke them up, sure, but if the same trial were to happen today, they’d be arraigned and acquitted.”

Pierre looked at me for a moment and I swear Abigail was going to sucker punch me from behind any minute.

No, that’s not right, she’d tap me on the shoulder and wait for me to turn around so she could assault me directly.

“I can’t sell cigarettes for three fucking pieces,” he said, placing a bag of wheat seeds on the counter.

“That’s why you  _ lose! _ ” I said, snatching the bag and hefting it over my shoulder. “ _ I  _ can afford to pay up to your prices. Even if some of these people  _ could _ , you think they want to? Would  _ you _ , if you were them? Sure, I  _ could _ buy Joja and save up for that trip to Disneyland that my kids dream of, but fuck that because I’m going to buy local and chase that warm fuzzy feeling in my stomach!

“I hate Morris with the burning passion of Hell’s infernos and believe me when I say I feel the same about his parent company but there is no logical or objective debate on this planet where you can reasonably argue that JojaMart does not provide affordable goods to both urban and rural areas and especially to economically stagnant communities, such as the past-its-prime ghost-town that we call home! It doesn’t matter if your parsnips are locally-grown and healthier than the mass-farmed tomatoes down the road if nobody can afford your fucking parsnips. You can’t make a meal out of goodwill and self-satisfaction, no matter what monks think.” I practically slammed my payment on the table. I don’t know why the hell I decided to kick this guy while he was down but I’m committed by this point, damnit, so I’ll see it through.

“If you want to get serious about remaining a competitor in the Valley, give me a call. If Morris ever threatens you legally or otherwise, give me a call. If Morris comes up with any of the obvious, pre-law undergrad-level retorts that I did just while I was bailing your daughter out of an assault and battery charge, give me a call. Otherwise, just give me my fucking seeds and don’t talk to me.”

If there was a rebuttal, they were either too slow or too stunned to give it. I left without another word.

~~

I had a few other things to do around town before I left for the farm. When I did get home, I dumped what I had picked up from town by the door, locked up, and dove into bed. It was only six P.M., but I laid there for hours, ignoring my buzzing phone, staring at the ceiling fan, watching it spin, shaking against the ceiling. It was chugging along and doing its job, but I swore it would come crashing onto my bed any minute.

I thought about the letter in my desk. I thought about how dry my throat felt and about the liquor I had chilled in my fridge. My legs didn’t have enough strength to carry me to either.

I lay there until I fell asleep.


	5. Burn the Fleet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is in a dark place after the General Store. To cope, he takes a trip from which he isn't sure he'll be able to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my hiatus. Several events have conspired to keep me in a position where I was unable to write, and whenever I was, life handed me issue after issue that made anything I wrote come out sub-par. I split off the first part of what used to be Chapter 5, which will now be Chapter 6. Thankfully, I have gotten settled into my new circumstances, home, and job, and the writing can continue as usual. I shall endeavor to be more consistent in my updates. Thanks for sticking with me this far!

**Chapter 5 - Burn the Fleet**

 

I don’t know why I did it.

The sturdy trunks of trees whizzed past my vision as a dust cloud kicked up behind me.

I didn’t know what I was doing. In a moment, the urge was just. . . _there_.

The tachometer crept towards the redline, dropped, and began its climb again.

My knuckles were white from gripping the wheel tight. I didn’t plan it this way, but it was right there.

The hazard-print on the guardrail reflected the sunlights into my eyes, directly in front of me. I could get out of this. Right now. One slight turn of the wheel and two very different futures in front of me.

A furious sound drilled through my head in a moment, breaking whatever siren-song reverie I was caught up in. I jerked the wheel sharply to the left, and my right-side tires almost lifted clear off the blacktop. I kept my head, surprisingly enough, and wrestled the Town Car back into a straight line. The blaring horn of an eighteen-wheeler faded behind me.

~~

The birdsong had woken me early that morning, piercing the veil of slumber like a knife through a ribcage. The sky was dark, the sun partially hidden behind the mountains and foothills to the northeast.

I took a double dose of Excedrin and washed it down with some cheap booze. Harvey would have me laid up if he knew. I didn’t—couldn’t—care. The need ate at me. _Drink, drink, drink._ I could barely think straight with my migraine-like hangover. If you had asked me to, say, make change, I couldn’t have done it. I needed the headache gone. I couldn't think. It had to go. It had to go.

As soon as the unholy migraine/hangover hybrid receded, it was replaced, like waves, by another creeping up on the shore of my mind. Memories trickled back from the day previous: the General Store, Morris, my tirade, Abigail’s tears, Pierre’s cold fury.

How could I have done that? Who does that? Who kicks a man when he’s down like that?

_I can’t go back to town,_ I thought. They wouldn’t accept me now. They know what I’m like now. They _know_ . I don’t know how, but they _know._

I was on the porch. I don’t know when I moved outside, but the sun was higher in the sky now, causing my eyes to ache. I couldn’t show my face again. Fetching sunglasses from the table that held my ashtray, I tipped the bottle back to take another swig—empty. Empty.

Shit!

I hurled the bottle at the post holding up the awning. It shattered against the hardwood, scratching it up and sending the shards scattering like tiny gems across the planks and grass. The table was next, overturned in another furious moment. The ashtray dinged against the floor, its contents strewn across the planks, falling between the cracks to the crawl-space below. I slammed my fist against the mahogany door—“Ah!”

Fuck!

I cradled my hand, already bandaged from the previous weeks’ work. Blood began to stain the cloth, seeping through little by little, as the wounds were violently reopened. I gave the door a kick, feeling the pain shoot up my foot. It distracted me from my hand, if only for a moment. Gritting my teeth, head pounding even with the Excedrin, I looked back at the truck parked just a few feet away from the porch, then back at the door and beyond, into the house.

~~

The bell rung, announcing my entrance, but I wasn’t in Pierre’s General Store. I was in a Stripes an hour north of town, on the other side of the mountains.

“Morning, sir!” the teenage clerk chirped.

I didn’t say anything, moving to the back. If the clerk reacted to my muteness, I didn’t see, or care.

_Ziiiiip._

I began filling the cooler with water bottles, the big twenty-ouncers. The clerk gave me an odd look in the robber-mirror mounted in the corner. When we made eye contact, the kid looked away.

“You got any jerry cans?” I called.

~~

Hours and miles away, I pulled off the highway into the desert. There was a disused gravel road, and I had to make a U-turn to get to it, having totally passed it up. I followed where it led me, passing the clusters of cacti and even passing a small watering hole, where a tree had somehow held on to life. Otherwise, all that survived out here were insects, shrubbery, and reptiles.

I had to make a wide half-circle around the fallen blades of those farmhouse windmills you always see outside stereotypical prairie homes. The tower of the windmill was rusted, but stood resolute nonetheless. The home itself was nearly wiped from existence by the ravages of time—only the suggestion of a foundation remained, long-faded scorch marks suggesting a worrisome demise. If it wasn’t for the tower, I’d never be able to find this place again. I knew I never would.

I gave one last look in the rear-view mirror to the duffel bag in the backseat, then sighed, unlocking the doors and stepping out. I slammed the door shut, walking around to the trunk and retrieving the jerry cans and the cooler. It was travel-sized, and had a strap for carrying it over-the-shoulder. I put it off to the side on the ruined foundation for the moment, along with my coat. Opening all four doors and popping the hood, I took one of the jerry cans, unscrewed it, and began dumping gasoline all over the car.

The fume, the smell, was almost overwhelming. I had to stop to take off my shirt, wrapping it around my mouth and nose and tying it. I downed a water when I stopped—I was sweating bullets. I could feel the sunburn setting in.

I made sure to cover every inch of that damn car. The engine, the trunk, front seat, the dashboard. . .

The back seat.

I hesitated, gasoline splashing onto my fingers, spilling onto the dirt and my boots. I closed my eyes. Images flashed under my eyelids, a starry, cold night, a quiet meal, a slow kiss. . . perfume. . . a letter, pink envelope, blue ink.

Eyes open. I doused the backseat, the duffel bag. The can ran dry. I tossed it in, cracked open the second, and made damn sure it was well and soaked. I led a trail back to the foundation. . .

You could see the fumes rising off the car. I’d have to make a decision before it evaporated. I reached into the pocket of my coat and retrieved a matchbook.

_Burn the fleet, we can never go home. . ._


	6. The Devil's Backbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes his way back into town. A new perspective gives him cause to re-evaluate his actions.

The Devil’s Backbone is a section of the mountain range on the desert side, known for its downright deadly temperature, its complete lack of water, and its extremely steep, craggy faces. I wanted to hike it when I was younger, by my grandfather explicitly forbade it. It was too difficult a hike for someone of my age, build, and experience. Gramps himself would have been anxious, planning a several-day hike “up in the Bones,” as the locals called it. We made plenty of hikes up to springs in the southern, forested mountains, and they were beautiful. I heard stories from the Guild about the breathtaking views from the Backbone and wanted to experience them for myself. One summer, when I was fifteen—young and stupid—I set out, drove to the trailhead, and tried to hike it myself.

I didn’t last a day.

~~

Hot dust seared my eyes as I walked along the two-lane highway leading back to the Valley. I could see the foothills rising in the distance. Walking, it would take me days. I was rationing my water. Heat stroke was a real issue, though. I could die out here.

Maybe that wouldn’t be. . . my thoughts drifted.

~~

Four cars passed me. I stuck my hitchhiker’s thumb out but they sailed on by, kicking up dust and sending hot exhaust my way. They must have been going somewhere.

~~

The sun was low in the sky and I fresh out of water when I heard the roaring of an eighteen-wheeler’s engine approaching from behind. I didn’t stick out my thumb. The engine seemed to quiet as it approached, or rather, stay at the same volume. The eighteen-wheeler passed me, pushing a merciful breeze onto my sweaty body, and I saw that its brake-lights were on. The Peterbilt coasted gently to a stop, a few hundred feet ahead of me. I trudged on, my pace unchanged.

When I reached the cab, the trucker was waiting for me. I wondered, briefly, if he was a serial killer. I didn’t care. He was in his fifties, with a bit of scruff on his face, which was creased and tanned from many days spent in the sun. His complexion was what my mother’s mother would have termed “vaguely ethnic.” Then again, my mother’s mother was new-money white trash, so. His left arm was sunburnt, his right arm less so. He wore a plaid shirt, a green hunter’s vest, jeans, and work boots. His trucker cap proudly displayed the Blue Oval, confirming in a moment which of the Big Three he preferred.

“You ahl’right there, son?” the trucker said, squinting his left eye. He had a pretty thick down-home Southerner drawl. His expression was hard to read, just sort of a neutral grimace. He reminded me of George, but softer.

I didn’t say anything.

“You headed back inna town?”

I gave him a lame nod.

He nodded, pursing his lips.

Without a word, he swung up onto the passenger side of the cab and pulled over the door. He hopped back down with an agility surprising for his age, and, without waiting for my reaction, simply walked back around the cab to the driver’s side, climbing in.

I could see an unopened bottle of Daniels laying on the passenger seat. Even if I wanted to keep walking, my animal-brain wouldn’t let me pass up a chance to drink.

I climbed into the truck.

~~

The bottle sat in my lap as we drove. For the first hour, nothing was said.

Finally, my curiosity overtook me. “You drink and drive?”

The trucker shook his head. “ _After_ I finish my route, I relax with a nip or two inna motel room.”

Silence reasserted itself, but only for a time.

“My turn,” he said. “What’s’er name?”

I hesitated. “Henry. Henry Peters.”

The trucker looked at me with an appraising glance, one hand laying with a  cautious casualness at twelve on the wheel. Even without his eyes on the road, the truck didn’t deviate from being almost perfectly in the center of his lane. Then again, with several thousand hours of highway driving, the trucker could probably run his route asleep. After a few moments, he extended his hand. “Nice’ta meetcha, Hank, my name’s Juan Carlo.”

I shook his hand, but something in my eye must have given him pause. He returned to facing the road, both hands on the wheel.

“You don’t like ‘Hank?’”

“My grandmother was the only one who called me that.”

“Do you mind if I call you ‘Hank?’”

“. . . Not particularly.”

“Hm.” Juan Carlo slowly nodded, as if he was deep in thought. “So, Hank, where you from?”

“Originally? I was born in New York. I grew up there, but my dad was from the Valley, and we came every summer.”

At the mention of the Valley, a warm smile came across Juan Carlo’s wizened face. “Ah, the Valley. Isn’t a more beautiful place on Yoba’s green Earth, tellya-what.”

I chuckled softly, tapping the cap of the bottle resting in my lap.

“You can go ahead and take a nip if it’ll calm your nerves, son.”

I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything, thankful for the gift. My fingers gripped the cap, and I moved my wrist to break the seal—

“Less’n, that is, that’s what’s gotcha down to begin with.”

“I’m sorry?”

Juan Carlo just pursed his lips, and his drawl lightened, his voice clearer, more grave. “A drink’s all well’n’good, but don’t let it enslave ya.”

I stared at the trucker.

“There’s water in the cooler in the back,” Juan Carlo said.

I cast my glance down at the bottle in my hands. A few quick motions and that sour Tennessee mash would wash away this crushing in my chest.

“My secret to keepin’em cold on long hauls’sza bit ah dry ice at the bottom.” Juan Carlo’s thicker drawl was returning.

I sighed, setting the bottle of Old No. 7 on the dash, reaching over the seat to get at the tiny personal cargo area behind Juan Carlo’s seat, and retrieved a bottle of water.

“Grab’un for me too, wouldya kindly?”

I passed Juan Carlo my bottle, then got another.

When I was situated, Juan Carlo began asking me more questions. To my own surprise, I answered candidly.

We talked for hours.

~~

“Thank you.”

“No thanks required,” Juan Carlo said, tipping his hat to me. “Way I see it, _ev_ ’rybody needs a little bump-draft now’n’en.”

“Needs a. . . what?” I said, cocking my head to the side.

“It’s when—ah shit, it don’t matter—I help you, you help me.”

That gave me pause. “How have I helped you?”

“Ways that’re hard to ar-tic-u-late,” he said, chewing his lip. “Perspective?” He shook his head. “Agin, don’t matter. Just pay it on forwards, now,” he said, climbing back into the truck. “See ya ‘round, Hank.”

I gave him a nod. “Juan.” I watched him from my position near the gate until he disappeared behind the oak trees.

I suppose I he gave me a few things to think about.

~~

"Where have you  _been?!_ "

I moved the receiver away from my ear.

"I—"

"The town's been worried damn near  _sick_ , Henry!"

"Robin, I—"

"That's it, I'm sending someone up there."

A beat of silence.

" _Robin,_ " I began, but she was relentless.

"Frankly, I don't think you're quite safe up there by yourself. I don't rightly know how to put this gentle-like, or the way we should go about it, but I can't just sit here and do nothing! Who do you want to come and visit?"

"It's dark out. Nobody needs to drive up here until morning. I'm fine now."

"Fine  _now?_ I buy that, but what about tomorrow morning? Hell's bells, what about five minutes from now?—" Robin's voice became quieter; she must have moved her mouth from the microphone. "Demitrius, get up! Go get Sebastian or Maru. I don't know, whoever's up! They probably both are."

"Robin—"

"Henry!"

. . .

"It was hard for Lewis when your grandfather passed away, and I don't think he could take another hit like that in his old age."

I bit my cheek hard enough to taste iron.

"Sebastian. We can talk about motorcycles or something."

"Good. I'll just stay on the phone with you until then."

Sweet Yoba, Robin! You're not my fucking mother!

 

I couldn't hang up the phone. I mean, I  _could_. "End Call" button was right there.

 

I couldn't hang up.


End file.
